


Lacebound

by Heronfem



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Family Dynamics, Gender Identity, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kaer Morhen Never Falls, M/M, Minor Character Death, Political Alliances, Self-Sacrifice, Sharing a Bed, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, We should improve society somewhat says Lambert, Winter At Kaer Morhen, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26196526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: Cat School is desperate after one of their mages changes the mutagen formula to be so unstable that none are surviving their trials. An alliance is brought to Wolf School, a treaty to be drafted during the winter to mesh the Cat and Wolf mutagens together in the hopes that the resulting mix would be stable enough for Cat School to survive. The solution? Bind a Cat and Wolf pair through an ancient marriage ritual and use them to pull the mutagens from, a brutal sacrifice that all anticipate will cost the pair their lives.Fresh from his first year on the Path and unexpectedly stuck with a new, weird friend and roommate in 3rd year Cat Aiden, Lambert is less concerned with the Cat treaty and more with handling all the ugly emotions that have come back with his return to Kaer Morhen and it's treatment of the children it raises. As winter progresses and Lambert is drawn into the Cat culture, Aiden's increasingly precious friendship and affection, and the politics of the treaty, he finds himself more at odds with the Wolves past and present and is forced to reconcile the intersections of sacrifice and agency that govern his world.He also dyes a horse green.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 108
Kudos: 175





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this fic heavily deals with The Inherent Tragedy of Witchers, and thus includes a lot of discussion of child abuse, death, human experimentation by the mages, and the violence and bigotry that impact their lives. It is also a story about family and love. Like with all my fics, you can find specific trigger warnings at the start of each chapter, and if you find I've missed one, please comment and let me know so I can add it to the warning list.

In the end, as far as Lambert’s concerned, it’s all Vesemir’s fault. 

It starts with a messenger raven seeming to drop out of the sky somewhere in some middle of butt-fuck nowhere village in south-east Kaedwen. Lambert, all of a year onto the path (technically 9 months, if you want to get pedantic about that bullshit, whatever) nearly has the damn bird fly into his head as it tries and fails to land on his arm. Lambert’s horse just huffs as he pulls her to a stop to watch the raven careen into a tree, land, and scream at him like he’s just personally murdered every one of its children. 

“What?” he demands of the bird, and holds out his arm properly. The bird squawks at him again before flying down to rest on his arm, and Lambert takes the message from its leg. The bird hops up to rest on his shoulder, and Lambert lets it preen through his hair with its sharp beak as he unrolls the message. It’s short. 

“Winter soon, pass closing fast. Having guests this time, hurry if you’re coming. Be safe. V,” he reads aloud, and groans. The bird continues to preen him. “You know what Vesemir’s problem is? He treats me like I’m still a kid. I’m not! I’m a grown ass adult! Do my own laundry and everything.” 

He fishes in his pocket for one of the little shiny trinkets he keeps for the messenger ravens, this one a battered steel ring, and passes it up. The bird happily squawks, right in his ear, and steals it from his hand before hopping down to stand on the pommel of his saddle. 

“No return message,” he says, gently running his fingers over the glossy feathers. “Stay or go as you like, birdbrain.” 

The raven stays with him another day before disappearing, and Lambert gets a lot of looks as he rides through town with a raven on his saddle, chatting back and forth with it. By the time it flies off, he’s taught it four new curse words. 

At the start of the nine months, Lambert had been dead certain that neither love nor money would be able to drag him back to Kaer Morhen to winter. He’d fucking hated his life there in training, but, well. The Path wasn’t as hard for him as some since he knows how to at least _pretend_ to be a people person, but it was still exhausting, and he’s finding himself less than enthused about trying to find a place to winter and actually getting to relax after all his hard work. If he goes he’ll have chores, and classes, and other shit to do but… but he’ll have a bed without fleas and he can soak in the hot springs, and maybe he can get better with bomb making with Master Ulfric to help him sort out the timers better. And he wouldn’t have to wonder about his next meals, and he misses the younger boys. 

Besides, he’s an adult now, and if he doesn’t get to torture Varin at least a little bit for being a massive sack of shit when he’s got nowhere to escape, what’s even the point?

So, fuck it. 

Lambert turns his horse north, and starts making his way up Kaedwen.

The trail up to the keep will take him if he’s not careful, so he sleeps in a proper bed when he gets to the base of the mountain. He wakes to an overcast day threatening snow, and makes fast work of getting his gear together and making the purchase of some hearty food to eat along the trail. 

And then… all that’s left is the climb.

oOo

Fuck this bullshit.

“This is bullshit,” Lambert informs his horse, who does not seem impressed as they trudge along the track. The horse is well trained, because no one out of the Wolf school is anything but stellar with horses, but Lambert hates walking in front of her. “Compete fucking bullshit.” 

The horse snorts, unhelpful. 

The trail has been narrow and miserable, as expected of something named “The Killer”. The weather is holding, at least, but the mountains are bitter cold already and his bones are aching with it. There’s snow up to his ankles, the kind of filthy gray of well traveled and then snowed on again, and the trees are either barren of their leaves or especially bristly pines. The sky above is fussing, split between wide patches of brilliant icey blue and thick, ominous grey clouds. He’s past the halfway point, but there’s still a distance to go, and he just hates how damn long this shit takes.

“Why am I even doing this,” he mutters as he slogs through the shallow snow. “Gonna be stuck with Vesemir and Varin all damn winter. Maybe I should make pickles to keep busy. Yeah? Gin, too, if I can find a place for it and keep the brats out of it. Keep working on the vodka-” 

He turns a corner, and nearly runs head first into another person. He catches a flash of cat eyes and alarm as they both shout, and then suddenly they both have daggers out at each other's throats. 

“Well,” the other Witcher says. “This is a surprise.” 

“Who the fuck are you,” Lambert snaps, not moving his blade.

The guy’s handsome, very young, and definitely not a Wolf. His skin is the natural bronze-brass tan of someone Mettina or Ebbing bred, with quick yellow-green eyes and brown hair with flecks of blond in thick waves to his shoulders, and an elegantly arched nose sits over an easy grin on a dangerously pretty mouth. It's the kind of mouth that worries men and woos women, and Lambert is immediately suspicious. 

"Aiden Kett," pretty boy says, and gives him a dangerously nice smile with that dangerous mouth. He sheaths his daggers, which is deeply insulting, and pulls his medallion out from under his cloak. The snarling Cat head is an instant giveaway. "School of the Cat."

“The fuck are you doing all the way up here, then?” Lambert demands, and Aiden gives him another winning smile. Lambert’s unmoved. “Go on, fuck off, get gone. You don’t live here.” 

Aiden shrugs elaborately. “Can’t. I’ve been summoned, and I’ll have half the school hunting me down if I don’t show. Some of my brothers are wintering at Kaer Morhen too- apparently we’re making up a treaty, a proper alliance between Wolves and Cats. Might even have a marriage come out of it, too, like we’re proper nobility or some such bullshit.” 

Lambert blinks, and reluctantly pulls his knife away from the Cat’s throat. “What are you on about?” 

“You know, I’d love to know that myself,” Aiden sighs. “I’m just following orders.” He gestures up the trail, where a horse is patiently waiting. “I just got off to piss and heard someone following. I’m carrying on up the mountain, if you want to come.” 

He walks back up to take the horse’s reins and starts up the path, and Lambert follows, somewhere between enraged and wildly curious. Aiden glances back at him. “Supposedly they found records of old Witcher weddings while they were reading up on it, which is a bit interesting. What’s your name?” 

“None of your _fucking_ business.” 

Aiden raises an eyebrow. “That sounds long. Is it a pain when you have to fill out forms?” 

Lambert bends down, scoops up some snow, and enthusiastically nails him in the head with it. 

Things do not improve from there. 

After a snowball fight that ends with both of them coated in white powder, Lambert finally spits out, “It’s Lambert.” 

Aiden looks up from where he’s been fussing with his snow covered vest, and nods. “Nice. Bright home, I like it. My name just means fiery one, kinda boring. What about a surname?” 

“Don’t have one, and I’m not “of” anywhere, so don’t ask,” Lambert tells him, and gathers his horses reins. “At least I didn’t name myself after my damn school.” 

He starts stalking away, but Aiden catches up with his mild mannered palomino just minutes later. 

“I didn’t pick it,” Aiden says earnestly. “I’m a bastard.” 

“Yeah, I got that already.” 

“Wow, rude,” Aiden snickers, but he’s grinning. He has a nice smile, Lambert’s traitor brain notices, and very good teeth. His fangs are long and narrow, unlike Lambert’s thick incisors. “No, really though, my da was a Mettina noble. They give noble bastards a portion of the sire’s surname, so Kettirigen turned into Kett, and then the Cats took me and I decided keeping it would be funny. My ma gave me up, thought I’d do better with them than with her, and since she died in a plague a year later I think she was probably right.” 

“I would love to know when I asked,” Lambert tells him with a blinding smile, and Aiden grins back at him even bigger. 

“I like you,” he announces, and Lambert is forced to acquire more snow to throw at him again. 

The trek up the mountain passes faster with someone to snipe at, and Lambert’s almost surprised when Aiden crests the last ridge and stops dead. Lambert reaches him, and looks up. 

“Bigger than yours?” he smirks, but Aiden just makes a vague noise of agreement as he looks at Kaer Morhen with undisguised awe. 

She really is a beautiful place, for being a dystopian cesspit full of corpses. She's all soaring broad towers, thick crenellations, sturdy walls, massive oaken doors, a broad moat, and over those grim grey and black walls, the massive black and white banner of the Wolf school flying, the snarling wolf emblazoned in white. The trees are massive around her, reassuring and sturdy, and the bridge is just as well kept up and solid as ever. Lambert leads Aiden across, and when they reach the portcullis he’s unsurprised to find it lowered. Aiden makes an interested noise as Lambert whistles the code to tell the gate guard it’s him and one other, and the portcullis raises. 

“We have a whistle language too,” Aiden tells him as they ride in. “Different dialect, I guess. Oh, what’s this?” 

This, Lambert sees, is the desk just to the left of the entryway under a tent with a brazier keeping the worst of the cold off of the Witcher sitting there. He groans, because Master Teagan is manning the check-in desk, and pulls himself off of his horse to face the asshole. Aiden follows him.

“You’re late,” Teagan says, looking up from the massive book on his desk. “Last ones to get here, it looks like, but congratulations on making it through your first year. You made me some money, Lambert.” 

“And I care why?” 

The look Teagan gives him is thoroughly unimpressed, but that’s his default expression, so Lambert mostly just ignores it. Teagan is, officially speaking, a Master and Trainer, but actually performs the day to day running of Kaer Morhen as her main Steward. He manages the rosters, the rolls, the paperwork, the food, and room and board. He also has the main say in class listings, and while he doesn’t outright despise Lambert, he’s not the biggest fan. He’s still on the younger end for the Master ranked Witchers, only about 80. He’s missing a chunk of his nose, one ear, most of his sight in his left eye, and his left leg from the knee down and is still kicking, so really, he probably earned his rank. He’s small, wiry, with messy brown curls and sharp dark eyes behind spectacles.

Aiden sidles up next to Lambert and gives Teagan a sunny smile. “Forgive my new friend, he’s had a long day. I’m Aiden Kett of the Cat School, apologies for my tardiness.” 

Lambert glowers at him, and Aiden steps hard on his foot when he opens his mouth to retort. 

"Lovely," Teagan says dryly, and looks back at his lists, flipping through them. "Cat Aiden, your temperament does you credit. Let’s get this over with. Kaer Morhen stays busy in the winters, and all Witchers until their 20th year on the Path are required to take classes through the winter to keep their skills sharp. We figure if you last past 20 years you’ve got yourself sorted. Classes are being held in the morning this year, 8 sharp. You two are late, so let’s see what’s even still open… ah. Skelliger and Nilfgaardian for language classes with Garren and Argent respectively, and History of the Pontar with Cat Itakris. Classes start Monday, so you have a few days break. Weapons training in the afternoon, you're in the salle every other day for knife and footwork drills. Lambert, you have kitchen duty in the mornings before breakfast and before supper every other day from your watch days. Your rest day will be Thursday." 

Lambert growls. "What? Why?"

Teagan glares. "Because you're a first year, so you get scut work, and Rand requested you since you actually know what you’re doing. Talk to me when you're as old as Mattias and I’ll see about giving you dusting in the library." He looks back at his papers. "You'll start on third watch today, and keep moving in a cycle each month. I hear any backtalk and you’re on privy duty for a month. Now, as for finding you a room… there are none. With us hosting the Cats, we’re fresh out, and you’re last arrived. So you’ll be in the barracks.” 

“ _Abso-fucking-lutely not,_ ” Lambert hisses, mortified. “I’ll pitch a tent in the fucking woods if I have to, I’m not going back to pup quarters.”

Teagan looks at him over his spectacles and snorts. “Well, that’s your prerogative. Don’t come crying when you lose toes to frostbite though. Cat Aiden, we have a room set aside for you in the keep, though it’s unfortunately one of the smaller accommodations for the Cat retinue as we weren’t certain whether or not you’d make it in time to join us and your original room was given to a returning Wolf.” 

Aiden nods, and then cuts his eyes over to Lambert. “Enough space to share?” 

Lambert and Teagan both stare at him. 

“The fuck,” Lambert says at last. 

Aiden shrugs. “We sleep in piles like kittens, most of the time. I don’t mind sharing a bed, and with as cold as it is up here, might be nice. I’ve never had my own space anyway. It’d be weird.” 

Lambert hesitates. The Cat is a perfect stranger, but he doesn’t want to be stuck with the snot nosed brats in training or out in the bitter cold with his bones crying. His only other option is probably a literal storage cupboard, and that would barely be better than a tent. Aiden watches him, just waiting for a response, so he finally just nods. “Sure, fine.”

Besides, if Aiden tries anything he can just stab him.

"Perfect," Teagan says, snapping his book shut. "Get your horses stabled and get out of my hair, dinner is in an hour and you'd both better be washed by then. Lambert, thank you for volunteering to show our guest the ropes, you’re in room 31. Do _not_ get the two of you dragged before Master Cat Dasha and Master Rennes before the week is out or I’ll thrash you myself." 

Lambert waves a dismissive hand and clicks his tongue at his horse to lead her towards the stable. The stables are massive, opening out onto the big pasture that some of the horses even now like to wander out in, and he shoos back the curious horses from the rails when they come to the gate to greet their new friends. He gets his horses’s tack off and tosses on her coat - an unquestioned necessity in this bitter cold- and turns her out into the milling herd. The indoor portion of the stable is essentially one long room. There are stalls, of a sort, but they’re meant only for care and grooming. There are just too many horses for individual box stalls. 

Aiden trails after him as he heads for the main keep, and keeps trailing after him when Lambert gets the directions to the room set aside for Aiden from Varin, who looks down his nose at the pair of them and clearly makes a decision about why Lambert’s the one asking. Lambert would love to punch the man square in the mouth, but he’s tired and he wants to drop his gear, so he sets it aside as a thought for later and hauls his new roommate up three flights of stairs, down two corridors, over a small bundle of playing kids, and down another flight of stairs to reach room 31, which has a neat little chalkboard with “Aiden Kett” written on it and space for messages underneath. Lambert grabs the chalk and adds “Lambert” underneath Aiden’s name, then fishes the key out from the message box and unlocks the door to let them in. 

“Home sweet home,” he says dryly, and steps in. 

It’s one of the small rooms, simply appointed but comfortable. The bed has posts and curtains to keep the warmth in, a clothes chest at the foot of the bed, a hearth with a broad mantle, a little table to sit by the bed with a candle ready to go, a bookshelf tucked back into the recess made on the far side of the hearth, and a weapons and armor rack just behind the door. There are large, soft rag rugs on the floor to keep the cold away, and along the wall with the window before the bed is a writing desk with a sturdy chair.

Aiden whistles, looking around the room with some awe. “This is a small room?” 

“Sixth years and up get these,” Lambert says, dropping his gear in a corner. “5 and under get smaller. How long have you been on the Path?” 

“3 years,” Aiden says absently, walking over to poke at the bookshelf. “I'm from the most recent class. Do you get assigned rooms? Enough that you can keep books?” 

“Yeah, after your 5th year. The biggest ones go to the ones who've made it 50 years or more." Lambert flops into the chair and starts wrestling with his boots. "Until you get an assigned room you keep your shit in storage every year and just move it to wherever you go in the winter. I'll get mine later. You want an extra chair?"

“It wouldn’t hurt.” 

“I’ll steal one later.” 

That gets him a flash of that terribly dangerous smile again. “You’re fun.” 

“Someone has to be in this dung heap.” He growls, the wet leather doesn’t want to come off. Before he can keep fighting it, Aiden’s knelt down in front of him and helping him ease it off with firm, steady hands. Lambert suddenly finds himself tongue tied as Aiden helps him out of the other as well and takes them to sit near the fire to dry out. 

“We, uh,” he starts, and shakes his head for a second before clearing it. “We mostly wear slippers indoors. Boots are for outside work, it’s usually pretty warm in here. Some people go barefoot completely, if they’re mad.” 

“Barefoot, here?” Aiden whistles, grinning. “Seems a bit silly.” 

“That’s one way to put it.” Lambert lets his head flop back and he sighs at the ceiling, staring at it for a long moment while he tries to wrestle up the energy to stand back up. “Fuuuuck, I hate winter travel.” 

He levers himself up to dig in his packs until he finds his bathing gear and some clean-enough clothes. “Come on, Cat, bathtime.” 

He doesn't bother locking the door, and Aiden makes a little noise of concern. "Won't people come dig through our things?"

Lambert shakes his head. "Not a chance."

"Oh."

Aiden follows him at an eager trot as Lambert leads him around a bend, down two staircases, past a pair of bickering 30 year Witchers arguing about sword hilts, around another clump of boys who all try and tackle him and have to be fended off with promises that yes, he’s here all winter, through the Great Hall, and down another two flights of stairs to the massive underground bathing caverns. Lambert shows him where the changing room is, where they can get toweling, and where to pick up the leather slippers lined with warm sheepskin for everyday wear. Aiden takes it all in eagerly, and follows Lambert out to the pools practically vibrating with excitement. 

Lambert isn’t surprised when they get into the first pool and a small cadre of boys immediately come to join them. Aiden sinks down on a seat on the far end as Lambert sighs, ready for the barrage of sound that is his little brothers greeting him.

“Will you fuckers shut up for two seconds,” he gripes as he ruffles hair and checks for any injuries among the 8 Witcher trainees currently harassing him. Liam, the oldest of the Grassed boys, plasters himself against Lambert’s side for more attention. “You have me for the rest of winter, I will tell you little brats stories later, I’m not going anywhere until the pass opens. I was gone nine months, not a fucking decade. Oi, Jeshu, leave Aiden alone, he’s a Cat and he’ll stab you if you annoy him.”

Jeshu, 15, sheepishly backs off when Aiden grins at him. 

“It was _boring_ here,” Darshay insists. He’s on the younger end, still all knobbly elbows and gangly as anything. “And Vesemir said I couldn’t make more bombs until you were back or Master Ulfric was up to supervising and he wouldn’t let me actually do anything fun with them so I had to _wait_.” 

“Patience is a virtue, brat,” Lambert informs him crisply, “especially with bombs. What have you done to your hair Ratterlin, fuck’s sake, let me see that. What is that supposed to be, a braid?” 

Aiden’s watching this all from where he’s sunk so just his eyes are above water. As Lambert fusses with Ratterlin’s hair he keeps an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep and drown. Aiden’s pupils are blown wide from the warmth of the pool, and as Ratterlin eagerly tells him all about Varin’s latest bullshit and Liam drowses against his shoulder, Lambert feels a tiny wash of contentment. The Path wasn’t bad, really, because he does know how to pretend to be personable, but fuck, it’s nice to be able to have a warm bath and talk with people he knows. 

A gong sends the boys scrambling out of the baths to go change so they can serve dinner, and Lambert leans back into his ledge with a groan of relief before dunking his head to wet it for scrubbing. Aiden surfaces, his brown hair turned near black from the water. 

“You’re good with them,” he says as he grabs one of the cakes of soap nearby. 

“They’re terrible little gremlins,” Lambert retorts. “I treat them like they are and they behave because we have an understanding about it.” 

Aiden just grins, and passes him the soap. 

They’re cutting it close by the time they get clean and up the stairs to the Great Hall. Aiden peels off to go talk to a couple of the Cats milling on the far end, and Lambert takes a moment to look over the Great Hall. There are currently 31 active Witchers out on the Path from the Wolf school, plus the usual crew in Kaer Morhen, and it looks like nearly everyone is back this year. There’s the usual 25 Kaer Morhen witchers, plus somewhere between 25 and 35 boys, so it’s hectic at the best of times. The Hall is clattering with noise, and he’s looking for somewhere to sit when a big hand thumps him on the back. 

He turns to see Vesemir and- oh, fuck, they’re of a height now. Lambert might even be a little taller.

And then Vesemir drags him into a tight, hard hug. 

It’s an understandable shock, and Lambert stands there like an idiot for a good 30 seconds before slowly bringing his arms up to gingerly return it. 

“Uh,” he says blankly. “Hi. This is weird.” 

Vesemir heaves a sigh. He sighs a lot around Lambert. “For once, Lambert, let an old man be old,” he says wearily. “It’s good to see you. Glad you made it back.” 

“Fuck off,” Lambert says mildly, but doesn’t actually move. “The other two dumbasses make it?” 

Vesemir huffs, finally letting him go. “Yes, Cullen and Timur have arrived. They both came fairly early in the season. Cullen’s gone and lost most of a hand, the left. Can’t do signs anymore, and he’s got a bad infection he can’t seem to kick so we’ll see if he lasts the week. Timur’s lost an ear and most of his hearing.”

“Damn.” 

“That’s about the sum of it, yes,” Vesemir says. He looks older than he did when Lambert left. There’s a sort of weight about his eyes, and Vesemir studies him for a moment before sighing, again. “I really didn’t know if you were going to come back. Almost expected you to stay down in Kaedwen.” 

Lambert shrugs. “Thought about it. Might not be back next year, we’ll see.” 

Vesemir makes the tiniest motion at that, almost a flinch. “Ah.” He nods, and claps Lambert on the shoulder. “Go eat, we’ve plenty of time to keep from strangling each other the next few months.” 

He walks off, and Lambert watches him go with a bit of a frown. He looks _tired_. 

Oh well. He shrugs, and finally spots somewhere with a place already set for him sit at and a basket of food nearby, so he settles into his new seat and is well on his way to having a really fucking good dinner when Aiden sits down next to him, propping his chin in his hand. 

“I hope you know all the little hideyholes in this place because my brothers are less than thrilled that I took so long getting here. Might be smart of me to lay low for a few days.” 

“I can show you the best fucking places in the keep,” Lambert says with genuine pride. “I got out of so much shit just by hiding until people didn’t care anymore.” 

“Nice.” 

As Aiden starts loading his own plate, Lambert frowns at his. He’s known the Cat less than a day, and they might be sharing space but there’s no real reason for the Cat to have shoved off his brothers in favor of one odd Wolf. The other Cats are all sitting together, aside from a gaggle of what must be trainers up at the high table. But Aiden’s here, as if they’ve known each other for years. 

He chose Lambert without so much as a blink. 

Lambert doesn’t know what to do with that, exactly, so he shoves it into the box marked “future problems” in his mind and tosses the key into the moat full of pike. 

Eskel and Geralt take this moment to make their appearances at the entrance to the Great Hall, Gweld trotting in behind them. Eskel brightens when he spots Lambert, tugging at Geralt's sleeve to get his attention. Geralt’s head swings around, and he immediately changes direction. Lambert groans, feeling his ears go hot as he glares at his plate. 

Eskel drops down on his right side, glancing at Aiden curiously but not asking, and Geralt and Gweld sit across from them. 

"Hiya, Lambert," Gweld says cheerily, because that's just how he is. Lambert hates him, but he hates most everyone, and he's willing to tolerate these three idiots a little more than most since they're functionally his formal older siblings. "Who's your Cat friend?"

"We're not friends," Lambert snaps, and Aiden pouts at him. 

"Aww, and I thought we were getting on so well." Aiden holds out his hand with a borderline lascivious grin. "Aiden Kett. I'm his bedmate." 

Eskel whistles as Lambert's head whips around to gape at Aiden. "Fast work, little wolf. You got back what, three hours ago?"

"We're _roommates_ , there wasn't anywhere left for me so he’s letting me crash with him," Lambert snarls, and grabs his plate towards himself when he sees Geralt’s hand twitch towards it. “Fuck off, you asshole, get your own food or lose a finger.” 

“Rude,” Geralt says, mild as milk, and Lambert makes the very mature and adult choice to stick his tongue out at him. Gweld cackles. 

Aiden looks between them, and then back to Lambert. “Friends of yours?” 

“ _No_ ,” Lambert says, dodging Eskel’s hand going for his hair.

“Older brothers,” Gweld tells Aiden, grinning. “Each year has a different adoptive Wolf for a stand in parent, cycled ten years apart. We’re all out of Vesemir, same as him, so we have to give him shit once in a while so he remembers he’s a baby. There’s two others, but they’re not so fun to tease.” 

Aiden grins back, elbowing Lambert. “Adorable.” 

“Fuck off,” Lambert tells him. “Geralt, I will take your intestines out through your nose, stop trying to take my fucking carrots-”

“Heads up, Rennes,” Eskel interrupts, and Lambert reluctantly stands up with the rest of the crowd as the Heads finally show. Wolf School Head Rennes is the very picture of a perfect Wolf Witcher, which is one of the many, innumerable reasons that Lambert sometimes fucking loathes him. He’s massive, taller than even Geralt by a good few inches, with thick brown hair that falls in gentle waves around his face, thin braids adorned by silver and turquoise beads dotted through it. He wears deep indigo blue paired with brown leather, almost always has a wolf pelt to warm him on his shoulders, and he’s a right fucking bastard when he wants to be. He’s young for a School Head but plenty tough all the same, just over 100 years old, and his nose is long, straight, and unbroken. Lambert refuses to be jealous of the salt and pepper beard he sports. 

Rennes is his usual self, but there’s a chair at the high table next to his that’s apparently meant to go to the Cat head, who is. 

Who is wearing. 

A dress. 

"Grandmaster Dasha of Maribor and Stygga,” Aiden murmurs to him. “That’s his name.” 

Master Dasha of the Cat School is tall, with broad shoulders and an absolutely tiny waist, and he’s lean all over. His silver-blond hair is pulled up into a loose bun at the back of his head, which just shows off his high cheekbones and a long nose with a small piercing glinting at the corner. His eyes are proper Witcher gold, and he’s elegant as can be. His lips are thin, but there’s laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. He has an ageless quality to him, and moves with the grace of a mountain lion in his dress. It’s a silvery-gold thing of an older style that coordinates with his hair, fitted in the bodice with spiral lacing up the chest and lots of trim on the long belled sleeves and the hem of the full, swirling skirts. 

Dasha is, in a word, beautiful. 

Something tugs in Lambert’s chest as the school heads take their seats and everyone else sits back down. He watches Dasha lean in to listen to something Teagan’s saying, and catches the flash of tiny pearl studs in his ears. 

He looks away, not sure what to do with the sudden, desperate longing he’s found himself with, and ruthlessly stomps it out in favor of demanding Eskel pass the greens. Aiden steals them from him after. 

Lambert waits until conversation’s turned to a couple different places before asking, “Your head, he always wear dresses?” 

“Not always,” Aiden says, and if he thinks anything is weird about the question he doesn’t make it obvious. “Just when he wants to. He likes the way skirts move, I think.” 

“Huh,” Lambert says, and then Eskel demands to hear some of his more ridiculous Path stories from the year and Lambert doesn’t have to think about beautiful Cats in pretty dresses anymore, because he has to fight Gweld when Gweld insists he’s exaggerating a bruxae hunt. He’s not, fuck you very much. 

When dinner finally wraps up he passes his plate off to one of the boys running past and gets up. Aiden scrambles to follow him, waving goodbye to the terrible trio before catching up with him. Lambert eyes him as they walk through an archway into the corridor. 

“What are you doing?” 

Aiden grimaces, hands twitching. “If my brothers see me alone they’ll want to talk to me more, and I like them, but they’re mad that I was so late and that sounds like no fun at all. You, however, are fun. So I’m following you. Also I don’t know if I could figure out how to get back to the room without you and I don’t want to ask anyone for directions when I don’t know anyone yet. Wow, you walk fast.” 

Lambert rolls his eyes. “I’m going to get my stuff, keep up.” 

“Oh, neat!” 

Three staircases, one narrowly avoided run in with Mage Darrin, a wide detour around the Trial rooms, and yet another cluster of boys to clamber over later, Lambert opens the door to the storage room and groans as he flicks igni at a torch. The chests are on shelves, decent sized and all branded with numbers. The keys all hang on hooks by the door, and he roots around through them until he finds number 18. Aiden watches with interest as Lambert breathes on it, waiting for the number carved into the iron to turn green, and then trots along after him as he goes down the line and drags the chest from its resting place to unlock it and toss the lid carelessly open.

He has fairly meager belongings. There’s his lacemaking gear, a few scrap pieces of actual lace, trinkets, his fabric from the clothes he wore to Kaer Morhen, piles of old notebooks, and some little mementos from the dead. Volthere’s practice sword is among them, but Lambert ignores the little rocks and pebbles in favor of pulling out a couple well worn notebooks from the top of the pile. These have his coded recipes inside, and lace bookmarks hanging from them. He fishes out his good coat, and a couple spare shirts for good measure. He has a couple jars of preserves in there too, and he fishes out one to hand off to Aiden. 

Aiden squints at it. “Is that fish?” 

“Herrings. We portalled out to the coast for training one week, I caught some on the last day and brought them back to pickle.” He hands the next one over. “That one’s just regular pickles, though.” 

“Huh, neat.” Aiden watches him close and lock the trunk back up. “Just some books and the jars?”

“Yeah, I need to test how the recipe turned out,” Lambert says, and leads him back up the stairs. “I’ll have ‘em for lunch tomorrow.” 

Aiden follows with a bounce in his step. “Can I try them with you?” 

Lambert considers this, and then decides a larger sample size is always conducive to better results. “Sure.” 

Plus, if they’re accidentally poisonous, Aiden can find out first. 

What? He’s not _that_ nice. 

“Nice,” Aiden grins, and when they get back to their bedroom he carefully sets the jars on the desk and then flops into the bed, groaning. “Remind me why we aren’t going back downstairs to get absolutely shitfaced with your brothers?” 

Lambert sits down at the desk and cracks open the notebooks, fishing out a pencil from his jerkin. “Because they’re assholes, and won’t let us have the good stuff. I haven’t had enough time to break into the cellars and get something better than the paint peeler they serve anyone under 40. Gweld will go through four bottles on his own, because he has no fucking taste.” 

Aiden rolls over to look at him, grinning. “You’re gonna steal good alcohol for me, handsome?” 

Lambert wrinkles his nose. “I’m stealing the good shit for me. If you happen to be there when it happens and take your own that’s your prerogative. And get your fucking slippers off of the bed, you heathen.” 

“You’re so finicky,” Aiden grins, kicking his slippers off. 

Lambert throws one of the lace bookmarks pointlessly at him, and it flutters to the covers. Aiden pounces on it exactly like a real cat, picking it up and immediately going still. Aiden’s pupils are blown wide as he carefully runs his fingers over the plain lace, mouth falling just slightly open. Lambert can see his fangs glinting a little. 

“Is there more of this thing,” he whispers, so gentle with it Lambert feels like he might combust looking at him. “It feels so nice. It's so beautiful. What- is it lace? This is lace?"

Lambert nods. “S’called bobbin lace. It’s thicker than most stuff that nobles wear. But if you get good at it you can make it really fine and delicate and shit like that. I made it.” 

Aiden’s head snaps up to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, and he hasn’t stopped running his fingers over the fragment. It’s not even _good_ lace, is the thing. Lambert hadn’t yet mastered tension when he made it, and it’s just a little bookmark, a lopsided little thing with some basic and boring patterns to it. But Aiden is holding it so gently, so carefully, as if it’s precious beyond measure. 

“You _made_ this?” Aiden says, and looks down at it, then back up at him. “I will give you a horrible amount of money for more of this. I will do just about anything you want to keep holding this.” 

Lambert stares at him, and then down at the bookmark, and then back up at him. “Why?” 

Aiden sits back on his haunches on the bed, cradling the lace to his chest. “I don’t…” he frowns, gnawing at his lip while he finds the words. Lambert understands the feeling, so he just waits.

“It makes my head quiet,” Aiden finally says, and. Ah. Yeah. Lambert gets that.

“You can’t have that one,” he says, nodding at the piece. “Not forever, anyway. I’ll make you a better one if you’ll do the laundry for a month.” 

“Deal,” Aiden says immediately, and then hesitates. “Um… until then, can I keep it here? Safe? So I can hold it sometimes? You said people won’t steal things from rooms, and I’ve never had anywhere to keep things safe. Can I?” 

Lambert knows intimately how absolutely fucking shitty Wolf school training is. He’s lived it, breathed it, watched people die through it, suffered torment and indignity after indignity, been beaten and bloodied and bruised, and for all of that, he still absolutely trusts that no one would ever dare actually take his personal things. Hells, he still has a scrap of his clothing from when he came to Kaer Morhen that no one has ever touched. Watching Aiden look up at him with his big, gold rimmed, blown-wide eyes, quietly begging for one nice thing? 

“Aiden,” he says, surprising himself at how calm he sounds, “this is our space. If anyone comes into these rooms who you or I don’t invite, or takes the lace from you, I will gut them where they stand.” 

Aiden looks absolutely dazzled, and a very small, genuine smile slides onto his mouth. 

“Oh,” he says, very soft. “Alright.” 

He hunkers down and burrows into the blankets, and Lambert feels an overwhelming amount of _emotion_ well up as he watches Aiden vanish until only his luminous eyes are visible in the pile and he can hear the throaty, noisy purr coming from inside Aiden’s little hollow. He turns around to keep his face from giving him away, and sets to fussing with the armor stands and weapons racks to make sure his things are hung just so. Aiden’s ridiculous light armor fits next to his on the rack very nicely.

“Anything I should know about you before climbing into bed with you?” he asks without turning around, because that seems like the smart thing to do. 

There’s a pause, and then Aiden cackles. “I’m a service top.” 

Lambert goes red and grabs a shoe to chuck at the bed. Aiden has emerged from his blankets, and easily catches it. “Gross,” Lambert informs him, and AIden tosses the shoe back. 

“What are you, seven?” Aiden grins. “It’s just sex talk.” 

“Again, gross.” Lambert makes a face, and fusses with the boots until they’re properly lined up. They need a second clothes chest in here, but for now he’ll stack his things on the desk and let Aiden have the chest, he can find a better one for himself. Fuck, he really needs to do some mending, his shirts look awful. Maybe he should dye one of them with indigo, that’d be good. Help keep him from catching fire, probably. He’d lost a sleeve that way earlier in the year. 

Aiden seems interested in this conversation, leaning forward in curiosity. “What, do you not like sex?” 

Lambert shrugs, folding up a shirt and stacking it. “S’just boring,” he says after a moment of thought. “People talk about how great it is, but it’s just jacking off with extra steps and someone slobbering on you, so I’ll pass, thanks.” 

Aiden’s eyebrows raise. “What, really?” 

“I don’t get it,” Lambert mutters, scowling at an errant thread. “What’s so great about it if you don’t actually like the person you’re fucking? That just seems stupid. What would ever be fun about that?” 

Aiden makes a vague noise, thumping a palm into his fist. “Gotcha, I see. One of my brothers is like you, he doesn’t like sex unless he knows the person first and likes them a lot. I’ll tone it down if you don’t like it, I know it’s not everybody’s thing.” 

Lambert eyes him, a bit confused. “Why would I care? Joke how you want to.” 

That gets him a returned eye, but Aiden just shrugs. “Okay. And, more seriously, just make sure you wake me up before climbing back into bed. Leaving is fine, but getting in might get you shanked. I don’t make much noise or move around much though.” 

“I have nightmares,” Lambert tells him bluntly. “Bad ones. Sometimes I wake up screaming, but I don’t thrash. I get them more when it gets about the new year.” 

“Mmm.” Aiden leans his chin on his hand. His fingers are still running over the lace. “I’m sensing we aren’t good enough friends for the tragic backstory that lead to that one yet.” 

Lambert shrugs. “Not a secret. I had a shit father. I was payment for a service. I was made into a Witcher. What more can you want?” 

“Fair enough. Betting there’s a bit more to it than that, but I’ll leave it alone,” Aiden says. He rubs his face on the lace and his eyes go a little hazy and sleepy. “Lambert, I love lace. I love it so much. I am going to do so much laundry for you.” 

“You’re so fucking weird,” Lambert sighs. “Why did I agree to this shit?” 

“It’s my winning personality and charming smile.” 

“It sure the fuck was not, you feline disaster. Don’t let me forget to steal a chair tomorrow.” 

It’s exactly as awkward as he expected, but Aiden does a lot to make it less terrible when he settles down easily next to the wall and burrows under the covers. Lambert’s aching bones, always worse with winter’s cold, are eased almost immediately by Aiden’s warmth. They settle quietly, worn out from the trek up the mountain. Aiden’s asleep in minutes, and Lambert watches his slow breathing for a while until the day drags him into darkness too. 

The alert for third watch comes with a sharp knock at the door, and Lambert comes awake with a start. Aiden does as well, eyes flashing green-gold in the dark, but he settles back into sleep in moments. 

Lambert reluctantly drags himself out of bed to stumble over and start pulling on his clothes. Aiden makes a vaguely offended noise on the other side of the bed, arm sprawling out into the warm spot, and Lambert watches it pat around until it finds his pillow and drags it in to hold against his chest. He doesn’t laugh, but it’s a close thing, and he straps on his swords and grabs his heaviest coat before heading out. 

Third watch is colder than a witches tit, and Lambert groans when he sees he's stuck on the same shift as that fucking ballsack of a bastard Remus. They trade out a very pissy and yawning Aubry and Lothar, take one glance at each other, and immediately split to go to opposite sides of the walls. Remus is an 8th year, and annoying as fuck. Lambert intends to avoid him as much as possible.

The winter cold hasn’t come in all the way yet, but most of what the watch is actually for is to make sure that none of the Witchers get fits of melancholy, get drunk, and wander out into the snow. This early in the winter it’s not likely to be too much of a problem, but as time drags on, it could get nasty. Lambert runs short laps in circuits, watching the woods and the inner courtyard, and when he and Remus are finally relieved by a very grumpy Gweld and an entirely too awake Ammon he heads straight for the room he shares with Aiden. A month of this is going to suck. 

He gets his armor and swords off without too much noise, and when he gets back to the bed he gently nudges it to give Aiden warning. He’s not so stupid as to go sliding into the man’s space when he definitely has a knife on or near him.

Aiden wakes in a flash, golden eyes sparking in the faint light. Lambert waits until he’s been recognized, and then climbs back in under the covers. Aiden says nothing, just slides in closer to him and shoves his face against his shoulder. Lambert blinks down at him, and decides that he doesn’t actually care, he’s just too tired, only to jolt when Aiden rolls over so he’s effectively pinning Lambert in bed and starts sleepily rubbing his cheek against him. 

“Uh,” Lambert manages. 

“Though’ you were gone,” Aiden slurs out, and it’s accompanied by a faint whine. Lambert jolts as he feels the faint drag of teeth against his skin, though it doesn’t seem threatening. Aiden just seems like a mouthy guy. “Di’n’t like it. Smell nice though.” 

“You are so fucking weird,” Lambert sighs, and steals his pillow back. “Do not fucking bite me in my sleep.”

oOo

He wakes up to one fading bruise on the curve of his shoulder, mouth sized, and whallops Aiden wholeheartedly with his pillow. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canonical child abuse, minor character death following infection assisted to lower pain, funerary rituals, mentions of canonical domestic violence and assault.

Dragging himself out of bed after only a few more scant hours of sleep following stupid fucking 3rd watch to stumble down to the kitchens is pure torture, but Lambert is used to rising with the dawn anyway. The kitchens are already in fine form, Master Garret bellowing orders to the other sleepy Witchers who drew the short straw of kitchen duty. Garret spots Lambert and rolls his eyes. 

“Did Teagan not give you a recovery day?” he demands, shoving Lambert to the sink to clean his hands. 

“No he fucking did not,” Lambert mumbles, washing on autopilot before turning around and being gently shuffled to the baking station, where someone passes him ingredients and a bowl. Lambert smiles a little, and starts measuring. He can do bread. Bread is great. He is _great_ at bread, he can make bread in his sleep. 

Fuck, he probably has made bread in his sleep before, actually. 

Master Rand, the actual head of baking, gives him an approving noise when he shows up a few minutes later with another sack of flour on his broad shoulders, and claps him on the shoulder before wading further into the kitchens. Rand’s missing too many fingers on his sword hand, but he’s a hell of a baker anyway, and he’s content to stay in the Keep with Garret. They bicker like an old married couple, and their arguments had become a formative part of Lambert’s first associations with safe complaining. 

Also his formative punishments, because once they figured out beating him was a pointless endeavor, he got sent to Rand or Garret to do endless kitchen work. 

He finishes kneading his loves, neatly separates them out, and gets them in the oven just in time for the massive waking bell in the tower to boom its first call of the day for dawn services for the Melitelan Witchers and day watch to take over on the walls. Garret shoves everyone onto the table, slapping food in front of them, and Lambert wolfs down his eggs and the rich bacon before washing it down with good milk and a hunk of Rand’s own bread. His fellow kitchen staff all look as exhausted as he feels, but there’s a sort of casual camaraderie about the whole thing and Rand ruffles Lambert’s hair on his way past so Lambert’s willing to give this a shot. 

He does actually kind of like kitchen work, so long as it’s not the endless drudgery of mincing things. Fuck that. He’ll mince shit for days for alchemy, he hates it for kitchen work. 

When they’re finally released and the boys come pouring in to take the food up to the main hall, Lambert hauls himself up the stairs to look for Aiden in the gaggle of people coming in. Somehow, he’s not surprised he’s not there. 

Eskel is, though, so he walks over and flicks him in the head. “Oi. Tell Aiden if you see him to eat without me, but I bet he got lost on his way here.” 

Eskel nods sleepily, blinking bleary eyes up at him. “Kitchen duty?” 

“What else?” 

Aiden has in fact gotten lost, and wound up in the classroom wing. Lambert only finds him from his scent and one of the littler boys telling him there was a weird person wandering around looking upset, and when Aiden spots him his face crumples a little in something between relief and misery. 

“I’m so hungry,” he whines, teary eyed, and Lambert grimaces as Aiden throws his arms around him and shoves his face into his shoulder. “Get me out of here, please?” 

“I’m going to have to make you a fucking map just to get to breakfast,” Lambert sighs, and drags his obnoxious new problem down to the Great Hall. 

Once breakfast is done, Aiden’s much less weepy but, unfortunately, still very tired. 

“Can you show me back?” he mumbles, head flopping down to rest on the table. “M’tired.” 

“Fine,” Lambert growls, and drags him back up to their room. Aiden practically collapses into bed, curling up under the blankets, and Lambert pauses when he sees Aiden’s shivering. His own bones are none too happy about the cold, but this looks like something different. Aiden looks outright miserable. “What, not good from the traveling?” 

“Probably,” Aiden mumbles, almost but not quite whining. “S’cold here.” 

“It’s going to get a lot colder.” 

Aiden gives him a smile, but it’s tense. “Good thing I’ve got you to keep me warm, then.” 

Lambert snorts, switching out his flour covered shirt for a clean one and a warm gambeson before piling some more logs on the fire. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be back in a bit, I need a copy of the key made since you’ve got the only one, and I want to get some of my stuff.” 

“Alright. Don’t forget to commit a theft.”

“Shit, yeah, I’ll remember.” 

He drops the key off to get it copied in the forges, and then turns his mind to the problem of a chair as he jogs back up the endless stairs to the main tower of the keep. His first thought is one of the classrooms to spite Varin, but Varin would smell him there and be only too thrilled to take it out of his hide. So he needs somewhere well traveled, and he can’t take anything too nice… 

Reading room it is. 

He makes his way to the comfortable reading room off of the library, jogging in with his face fixed in a mask of annoyance. The fire in the hearth is roaring and there are a number of Witchers on couches or armchairs already reading. Lambert ignores all of them, looking around with a huff of annoyance until he finds one of the wooden armchairs that no one likes but him (they’re cleverly carved and cradle his back perfectly, so what?), so he goes and hefts one up, rolling his eyes. Mattias, who’s been watching his work from one of the comfy, overstuffed armchairs, smiles a little. 

“Doing errands, Lambert?” he murmurs. 

Lambert just growls, taking the chair from the room and kicking the door shut. There’s a faint grumble of noise behind him at the slam, but he ignores it, jogging on down the hall and looking faintly harassed and very annoyed about the chair he’s carrying. No one bats an eye at a first year running errands, especially not him, so he gets back to the bedroom with his prize in record time and lets himself in. 

“Behold,” he says, closing the door and setting his chair down triumphantly. “The fruits of my theft.” 

“Nice,” Aiden says, nodding in approval at the chair. “Looks comfy.” 

“Very,” Lambert agrees, smug. “Key should be done, want me to show you where the laundry is?” 

Aiden groans, but levers himself out of bed. He’s holding onto the scrap of lace, and looks sheepish when Lambert notices. “Sorry.” 

“Told you that you could keep it until I make you something better,” Lambert shrugs. “Not my issue.” 

Aiden nods, tucking the lace into his shirt, and they gather their dirty things to start the trek down to the laundry. It’s near the baths, down a hallway away from the hot springs, and Aiden makes a faint noise when they step into the big cavern and he sees the huge window with its glass covering. Lambert glances at him. 

“I’m not great underground,” Aiden mumbles, cheeks flushing. 

“You were fine in the baths,” Lambert points out. 

“Yeah, the ceilings are so high,” Aiden explains. “Cramped, dark, underground? Not my favorite thing.” 

Lambert shrugs. That’s fair. 

There’s a few other witchers doing laundry who nod to them, but Lambert shows him where the wash soap is, the scrubbing boards, and all the different temperatures of pools. Aiden takes it all in stride, assures him that he can find his way back, and Lambert takes off to go back to the storage room for his lacemaking gear. There’s enough space on the bookshelf to store it. He grabs another clothes chest from the storage rooms, picks up the key, gets his lace making tools and drags it all back to the bedroom to get it all arranged. 

His chest goes against the end of the desk, a comfortable enough spot for such a thing, and he flips through his patterns to select a relatively complicated but reasonable pattern for Aiden before counting out bobbin pairs. His walnut bobbins are hand-me-downs, scrounged from the loom studio or others cast offs. Lots of Witchers do fiber arts, mostly crochet or knitting to while away long hours, but some weave massive rolls of canvas or cotton or wool on the big shuttle looms up in the higher reaches of the keep. Others do embroidery, or fancy needlework, and still others make lace. Lambert, for example. And Vesemir, who had taught him. 

He’s short 8 pairs, and grimaces. Bobbins for lace making have to be in sets of two- he needs more if he’s going to fill the pattern he wants. 

And that means… 

“Vesemir,” he sighs. He considers just picking another pattern for a moment, but Aiden’s happy purring finds him and he sighs, harder. He’s getting soft. 

Vesemir doesn’t have a room. He has rooms, plural, a bedroom with a study and a large closet close to the barracks where the boys stay with a truly fantastic view. Lambert fends off the small horde of children who spot him and come to say hi with promises that again, yes, he’s there for the whole winter, and sends them packing. Terrors, all of them, but he’s not ashamed to admit he’s soft for the littlest ones. The youngest here currently is Aeldred at 6 years old, and while it makes him furious to see them treated so poorly he does what he can for them. 

His palms still spike with sweat when he passes Varin’s rooms, but he ignores that and adjusts his gloves as he rounds the corner of the tower and goes up a level to Vesemir’s chambers and knocks on the door. 

It’s yanked open before he can even pull his hand away, and Lambert’s mildly annoyed that it didn’t run directly into Varin’s face as the training master glares at him. 

“You,” Varin says dryly, and glances back into Vesemir’s study. “The brat’s here to see you. We’ll finish this later.” 

“Fuck off, Varin,” Vesemir’s voice says from inside, and Varin shoves by Lambert to stalk down the hall. Lambert seriously considers Aarding him from behind, but he doesn’t actually want to be flogged and Varin _would_ in this bad of a mood. Varin’s not a big man, shorter than most of the other Witchers, but he’s sturdy built. He wears his silvered hair shaved down, has a snub of a nose he’s always somehow looking down, and perpetual frown lines. 

Lambert hates him with a passion. 

“Come in,” Vesemir calls, and Lambert steps inside and shuts the door. 

Vesemir’s study is familiar. He’s been in and out of it gods know how many times, and it’s packed to the brim with bookshelves bursting with endless books, paperwork, and trinkets. Rugs carpet the floor, a massive and comfortably overstuffed chaise lounge shoved against one wall. The door to his bedroom has always been closed that Lambert knows, with a heavy lock. Simple wool curtains dyed black hang from rails, and a brazier sits in the corner nearest to the enormous oak desk that dominates the room. Vesemir himself is at the desk, dressed down for the day in comfortable gambeson and trousers- It’s the break week for Winter arrivals, of course, he doesn’t have classes to teach just yet. He’s got a cup in his hand, a chunky bottle of something smelling vaguely noxious sitting open on the desk. 

“Lambert,” Vesemir sighs, like this just can’t make his day any worse. Typical. “Can’t say I expected you.” 

“Yeah, well, I need bobbins and figured you’d have some. What the fuck was that about?” 

Vesemir shakes his head, rolling his cup in his hand. "It's nothing. Just Varin's usual check in to make sure I'm not going to go walk off into the snow and see myself dead." The cup pauses in his hands. "There's talk of having me removed as fencing master and sending me back out on the Path. Varin thinks I've gone soft, not wanting to see children endlessly dying or being forced to cull the ones who the mutations destroyed." 

Lambert stares. "Oh."

Vesemir sighs heavily, standing up. "It's not your problem, Lambert, I've been getting fucked over by that prick for well over 50 years now both professionally and personally, I’ve learned not to take it too seriously. Fuck, I’m tipsy if I’m talking so loose. Let me find you some spare bobbins, I turned some new ones in the fall.”

Lambert trails after him to the massive armoire that sits in the corner, and watches Vesemir dig through it. “S’weird, being in here now.” 

“Is it?” Vesemir emerges with a box, and flips it open to reveal several beautiful bobbins with long, bulbous ends out of a very nice cherry wood. “How many?” 

“8 pairs.” 

Vesemir nods and starts selecting some. “You seem calmer than usual.” 

“I’m too tired to get up to much,” Lambert tells him honestly, and gets a wry smile in return. “Don’t expect me to come haunting your door, you bastard, all I want is the bobbins.” 

“I’m fully aware,” Vesemir says, and hands him the pile. “I know you hate it here, and me. But I’m glad we got to see you made it through. Double glad to have proved Varin wrong.” 

“Whatever, old man,” Lambert mutters, feeling his face go hot, and flees the room. 

Vesemir is more tolerable than Varin, but only just. He was just as much party to the bullshit of training and thrashed Lambert plenty on his own merit, and Lambert knows damn well he was a handful but if anyone had taken half a moment to actually see him, to try- 

It’s pointless. The past is the past, and he’s got the scars to show for it, and it doesn’t fucking matter. 

When he gets back to his room he finds Aiden’s returned and flopped into bed again, their laundry dried and already neatly folded. He stirs as Lambert sets his gear down, mouth yawning wide and limbs going splayed just like a cat. His mouth opens very, very wide, and his sharp, short fangs flash lightning quick before his mouth snaps shut again. Lambert resolutely does not think about how his own teeth aren’t nearly so sharp, and instead gets to work putting together the stand for his lace pillow and fussing with his gear, getting himself situated just so by the fire. It’s a simple thing, a little cradle for the big cylindrical bolster pillow stuffed with straw, exactly the right height for Lambert to work without aching.

He settles his pillow on the little stand and starts to pin his pattern in place. Aiden watches with wide eyes, slinking over to kneel next to the chair and watch him work. He’s pulled on some comfortable cotton shirt and trews, and his hair is sleep mussed. His pupils are blown wide and he isn’t speaking, watching with intense fascination as Lambert measures out thread and winds his bobbin pairs. It’s not like he’s doing anything particularly interesting, but Lambert feels oddly exposed as he sets up his pins and the bobbins. 

“Why are you so damn interested, anyway?” he finally asks when Aiden inches closer and cranes his head to look at the stand better. Aiden flinches back, as if expecting Lambert to whack him on the nose for getting too close, but when Lambert doesn’t he settles back on his heels. He even sits prettily, a neat line of straight back and knees together, feet tucked in to cushion him and hands resting in his lap. 

Aiden watches as he hangs the first bobbin from its pin. “I don’t know, it’s just… different. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I mean, I know lace exists, I’ve seen that, but I’ve never seen it _made_.” He leans in again, and watches as Lambert hangs his next starting bobbins. “What is it going to be? Just trim, for clothes?” 

“No,” Lambert says, and doesn’t elaborate. Aiden doesn’t need to know that it’ll be a bracelet or necklace for him until it’s done. It’ll be a couple hours work at the fastest, and it might take him a while to remember how to weave the spider shapes properly. Actually, this might not even end up his, he kind of wants to make something more impressive just to prove he can.

Aiden nods and doesn’t move, watching him with deep fascination, and Lambert clears his throat. 

“You can rest your head on my leg if you get tired,” he mutters, and resolutely does not look down when he hears Aiden make a soft, strangled noise.

The bobbins make pleasant clacking noises as he starts the weaving process, twisting and turning the bobbins in their patterns. It comes back easily to him, memories of watching Vesemir sit in the shade of a tree as he worked and pinned an old friend. He doesn’t really remember when Vesemir started teaching him, just knows that one day he got tired of being stared at and told him to sit down and watch instead of lurking behind a tree like a little shadow, and that had been that. Eventually Lambert had cobbled together a makeshift pillow and stolen some of Vesemir’s bobbins, only to be boxed around the ears for not waiting a few days and then being given a box all his own, beautiful turned walnut bobbins in the Toussaint style called _torchon_ to go with his filched ones. He’d been given a pattern book not long after, and it became a common thing, sitting in his tiny room with a guttering candle and a bit of Cat in his system to do lacework.

Aiden’s head rests on his leg, and Lambert doesn’t stop the familiar twists of the lace. He glances down, hands moving on autopilot, to find Aiden’s eyes closed and his hands twisted in his lap. 

Whatever. It’s fine. Let him rest. He’s been nice so far, and while Lambert doesn’t have much practice in returning kindness, he doesn’t actually want to scare the Cat off. He’s… well. Aiden’s not soft, not by anyone’s standards, but he’s been kind and funny and more importantly, warm. Lambert wants to keep him around, if only to see how it falls apart.

Lambert goes back to his work. He’ll wake him back up when it’s time for dinner.

oOo

Four days into their stay at Kaer Morhen, just as things are hitting their stride, a runner comes to find Lambert after lunch with a note, and things quietly fall a little bit apart.

It’s not a surprise, Lambert knows as he reads the shaky writing telling him that his yearmate is soon to breathe his last and to please come see him before he goes. It really, really isn’t. A massive number of first year Witchers die on the Path every year, or just vanish entirely. Cullen’s wounds have grown septic, too deep in his blood to be saved, and that’s a death sentence for anyone. 

He steals a bottle of White Gull from the kitchens, Garret not even noticing, and makes his way to the infirmary to see to his brothers.

Timur looks up as he comes in, his mouth a thin line. Cullen’s near completely still in front of him, breathing shallow, and Lambert grabs a chair to join him. He silently passes Timur the bottle of White Gull, and Timur nods to him before uncorking it and downing about half in one go. Timur’s bigger and bulkier than Lambert by a mile, with short cut blond hair and his newly missing ear.

“That bad, huh?” Lambert says. It’s subdued. 

“Yeah.” Timur sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His voice is louder than it used to be, and Lambert winces as it grates on his sensitive ears. “Soon, they think. Couple hours, maybe. His ma was some sort of hedgewitch, so healing won’t take to him. Vesemir’s gonna come sit with me til he goes. You too, if you want to stay.” 

Lambert sighs. “I’ll stay.” 

Timur nods, mouth tight. “Thanks.” 

Lambert isn’t close to his yearmates. Cullen had taken until he was 17 to grow out of being a piece of shit, and Timur was always standoffish with him to start with. The others were all dead. Volthere had been his only real friend in the group, and that hadn’t ended well. Understatement of the fucking century, that. But Timur and Cullen had grown kind of close after their last Trial, and Lambert’s not so much of an asshole as to leave the guy alone to watch his friend and lover slowly die. 

He wishes he could, but, well. This place ripped them up already, and Timur’s doomed to be here for most of the rest of his life, probably. Lambert would rather walk off a cliff than stay permanently. He takes another swig of White Gull, and settles in to wait. 

Timur’s not very talkative. He holds Cullen’s one remaining hand, thinking to himself, and drinks when he needs to. Lambert entertains himself writing up new potential recipes on a scrap of paper he finds in a drawer, and when Vesemir finally shows after the evening Committee meeting, they play silent rounds of Gwent together. Other Wolves duck in, giving Lambert dirty looks when they think he isn’t watching, and Lambert ignores them as they say their goodbyes and offer condolences to Timur. They don’t bother offering any to him. 

He gets it. Everyone knows that they didn’t get on. 

But it still stings a little. 

Cullen is his brother too, after all, and maybe he wasn’t a good brother, and maybe Lambert wasn’t either, but they were raised in the same rooms and cuddled like puppies when they were still small and Lambert had been new to the keep. Cullen had been rude, harsh, and mean, but he’d also stood up to Varin for Lambert when he was sick once, and for that alone Lambert was willing to tolerate him. 

And now he’s dying, all because he had the bad luck to have a ma with enough magic that healing won’t stick and an infection that can’t be burned out. 

Varin doesn’t come. 

The other children out of Vesemir’s line come towards the end. Geralt, Eskel, and Gweld are there, plus some much older Witchers that Lambert doesn’t know, three of them of varying years, and they all gather around the bed when Cullen shifts, eyes opening blearily. 

“Hey,” Timur says, hands starting to shake. “Hey.” 

Cullen says something in his harsh native Skelliger, and Timur bends to press his forehead to Cullen’s and reply in kind. Lambert sits down next to Timur, and Cullen makes a vague noise, twitching. 

“I’m here too,” Lambert tells him, forcing a wry smile. “Don’t think you get to fuck off without one last look at all this.” 

That gets a smile out of him, and Cullen’s head lolls to the side. 

“Hurts,” he finally rasps. “Poppy? Make it fast.” 

Vesemir makes a noise like a wounded bear and stands up, walking from the room with a hand over his face. It’s Eskel who reaches over to smooth Cullen’s curls back, murmuring a soft reassurance as Gweld gets up to go and fetch Darrin, the mage who handles upping the poppy’s potency for Witcher metabolisms. Cullen sighs, hand weakly clutching at Timur’s. 

“I don’t want you to go,” Timur tells him. 

“Tough shit, love,” Cullen says, with a bit of that cocky asshole grin that he grew out of years ago. “I’m tired and hurting. I… I want to go. Don’t want to leave you, but I can’t stay. You’re just going to have to deal.” 

Timur laughs a little, ducking his head. “Fuck, you two sound so much a like sometimes.” 

“ _Hey_ ,” Lambert and Cullen say together, in identical tones of outrage, and that gets a ragged laugh from everyone in the room. Vesemir comes back, and comes to stand by Timur’s side. 

Cullen smiles up at him, but it’s wobbly. “Hi, Master.” 

“Hello, pup,” he says, gentle and quiet. “Darrin is coming.” 

“Good.” Cullen looks back at Lambert, and manages a weak nod at Timur. “You watch out for this dumbass, when you’ve got the time and brains. One of us needs to keep him from doing dumb shit.” 

Lambert shrugs. “You sure you want to ask me for that?” 

“Mm, you’re right. Better ask Gweld.” 

Gweld gently pats his leg. “Can do, little brother.” 

Eskel returns with Darrin, and for a few minutes all they can hear is the tall mage working at the counter. Cullen’s face has gone grey, his hand shaking in Timur’s, and the oldest of Vesemir’s line say their quiet goodbyes and leave. Eskel and Geralt go next, Gweld staying to offer a few soft words before he leaves too. 

It’s just the four of them left, and Lambert takes up a new station on the other side of Cullen. 

Darrin joins them with the clear liquid in a small vial, and hands it to Vesemir with a nod. 

“It was a pleasure to know you,” he tells Cullen, and sweeps from the room. Lambert can smell the faint tang of salt from tears. 

Vesemir finds a chair and sits down, taking a slow breath. His heart is steady. Lambert finds Cullen’s shoulder to hold as Timur’s breathing starts to rattle. 

“There’s no particular ceremony,” Vesemir says, and his voice is so gentle Lambert’s suddenly thrown back in time to the worst day of his life, standing under the hot Sodden sun at 9 years old, looking up at this tall man with his swords and dark armor, bruises on his cheeks and his father pushing him forward. Vesemir’s voice had been gentle then too, gentle for the death of a life he was never going to have. “I can read if you would like, or we can be quiet.” 

Cullen sighs. His heartbeat is thready and uneven. “Last goodbyes, then. Not much to say that wasn’t already said.” He thumps his head against Timur’s. Timur’s half laying on the bed, their heads close together. “Just make sure this idiot remembers I’m not the only good dick in the world, please. Don’t mourn me forever, dumbass, I got unlucky. Life goes on.”

“I know,” Timur says, shaking. “I know.” 

“Good. And you,” Cullen says, looking to Lambert. “This Cat they were telling me about, don’t run him off, he seems nice.” 

Lambert snorts, feeling very unsteady. “Like you know anything about nice.” 

“Asshole,” Cullen says mildly. He nods to Vesemir. “Thank you for caring for me. I know we weren’t an easy class.” 

Vesemir nods, managing a small smile. “Indeed you were not.” 

“Can you tell the Brambles and the Choice while I go?” Cullen asks, and Vesemir nods again. He passes the vial over, and Timur helps him drink. Lambert watches Cullen settle back, and can hear as his heartbeat starts to slow. 

Vesemir swallows hard, exhaling heavily. “Once,” he begins, voice steady, “long ago, in the palace of a great and evil king, there was a rose garden that grew no roses, and instead grew only brambles with thorns as long as a man’s arm and twice as thick.” 

He’s halfway through the story when Cullen's heart stops and his lungs cease to move, and for a moment all three of them sit there in silence. Then Timur breaks, tears running down his thick face as he makes tiny, broken noises in his sobs and turns Cullen’s hand over in his.

Lambert stands. It’s time for him to go. “Do you want help with the preparations?”

“No,” Vesemir says quietly, running a hand over Timur’s back. “Grave digging’s for loved ones. Tending to the body’s a parents job. I’ll see him prepared.” 

Timur looks up, his face snotty and tear stained. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “For staying.” 

“Sure,” Lambert says, patting his shoulder, and a fresh wave of tears come as Timur bows his head back down over the body. 

Vesemir walks with him to the door. “I know,” he says when they’re out of hearing range, “that you don’t care too much about him, but can you watch him when he digs the grave tomorrow?” 

“Already planning on it,” Lambert says, and Vesemir nods. He looks old and tired, and after a moment’s hesitation Lambert shoves his hands in his pockets and just asks. “How the fuck do you survive it? Going through this all the time? I don’t know how many of us you’ve buried or burned, how many bodies you’ve seen go to the flames.” 

Vesemir looks away, mouth pressing tight. For a moment Lambert thinks he won’t answer, but he finally says, “I survive it for the ones who survive, who’d be more hurt if I was the one gone. I don’t pretend I’m a good man. I’ve done plenty of harm. But… Better me than Varin. I stay alive out of spite.” 

“Fair enough.” Lambert feels his mouth twist, and the words fall out before he means them to. “It’s wrong, what you do to us. Cruelty doesn’t make anyone stronger. Just fractures you further.” 

This time when Vesemir meets his eyes Lambert almost recoils at the sheer weight of age in them. 

“I know,” he says, “and if you don’t think Varin thinks the exact opposite and hasn’t told me exactly who he’d replace me with if given the chance, you’re wrong. We’re slaves to our society, Lambert. And I don’t have the power to rise up without putting hundreds of young lives at risk.” 

Lambert just sighs, and walks away. There’s nothing else to say to that, really. He’s tired, and furious, and just wants to go to bed.

Aiden’s waiting up for him, eyes flashing in the candlelight as Lambert shuts the door. He peels off his things and tosses them into a pile before dragging out his most comfortable night shirt and going to join Aiden in bed. Aiden just slides over, letting him settle to stare at the top of the canopy. 

“Where were you?” he asks, and Lambert gives him a grim smile. 

“Waiting for death,” Lambert says, unsurprised at how gritty his voice sounds. “One of my yearmates just died. Funeral’s tomorrow at noon, if you want to come.” 

Aiden inhales sharply. “Shit. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” Lambert twitches away from Aiden’s hand, rolling over onto his side. “Everyone dies eventually.” 

“It’s still shit,” Aiden says quietly. “Want me to get you a drink?” 

“Already drunk,” Lambert says, tired. “Leave it.” 

Aiden makes a faint noise, and Lambert falls asleep with the blankets bundled around his shoulders. 

He wakes up to Aiden’s face pressed against his back, an arm over his waist, and he spends a moment staring blankly at the bookshelf opposite before he pulls himself free and goes to get dressed. There’s work to do.

oOo

Timur’s the one who put his foot down about a pyre. Not for Cullen, he’d insisted, whose ma had died burning on a stake. Deep in the ground, that was the way he wanted to go. So it was Lambert who carried the shovels out of the keep with him to the meadow full of markers of the Witchers who hadn’t wanted to be burned, their cairns piled high. It takes a number of igni blasts to clear the snow, but the ground is soft enough still, free of the hardest frost, and Lambert finds a stump to sit on while he hands over the shovels and Timur shoves the blade into the ground.

It’s a clear day, snowbirds singing in the forest beyond. The white expanse of snow stretches on forever, interrupted only by the cairns of the dead and the spines of trees, and Lambert stares blankly out at the skyline as Timur begins to dig. 

He’d asked, once, a long time ago, why Varin insisted on digging the graves himself when the boys died in the Trials, why they weren’t burned instead. He’d been rude about it, of course, because his friends were dead and he was pissed and grieving. Vesemir had taken him to a window, where he could see Varin as a dot on the horizon, digging out each individual grave for a too small body. 

“There’s a catharsis,” Vesemir said quietly, “in making the last resting place for someone. It’s the last act you can do for them, digging out a grave for them to stay in, a place for their bones until the land takes them back. Varin can’t love them in life, but he makes sure they have a nice place to rest.” 

“He makes you kill us when we have to be put down, he can’t even do that for us,” Lambert snapped, half spitting the words out, and Vesemir looked very old indeed as he braced his hands on the window ledge and watched his counterpart dig graves. 

“Little man,” Vesemir told him, not looking at him, “I am not a praying man, but I pray you never have to be a trainer. We have no hearts left, burying so many of our children. Varin digs graves, I tend to the bodies, and both of us have to live with the blood on our hands. Me more than him, you’re right, but I’ve managed to keep some kindness somewhere deep down, at the least.” 

He had straightened then, looked up on the sky. 

“If you ever can bear it,” he said, voice very far, “it helps to dig graves. Just don’t dig yours along with theirs.” 

Now, sipping White Gull in the brilliant white light of snow on the mountains, Timur’s breath catching on sobs as the shovel bites into the ground, Lambert finds himself thinking of the first grave he ever dug. 

Deep, he’d dug deep. 

He’d wanted to burn the body and the house, but the countryside was dry as tinder when he’d rode up, so he’d dug instead. He thought about making it shallow, something for animals to feast on, but the thought of his sack of shit father coming back to prey on even more shitty villagers in that nowhere town left a bad taste in his mouth. So he’d stood there, in the brutal heat of an early summer at the edge of the border of Cintra and Sodden, shoveling dry, dusty earth free of tree roots, to unceremoniously kick the remains into the hole. Rogir Basrason had already started to swell.

He will never get the stink of him out of his nose. Never get that miserable horror out of his throat as he walked through the house, looking for any sign of his mother, finding nothing, not even a brush. 

She’s buried in a churchyard, a paupers grave without even a wooden marker. No family to help her, killed by a bully of a man, she’d died just two years after he was taken. The alderman had said nothing of arresting him when he came into the meeting hall drenched in his father’s blood and grave dust, just took one look at the shape of his nose and his mouth and said, “Celeste’s boy, then. The one given to the Witchers.” 

Not Rogir’s boy. Celeste’s. 

Lambert Rogirson of Sodden died the day he was taken from his fragile, broken shell of a mother, and stayed dead long after Witcher Lambert of nowhere came back with silver around his neck and steel in his hand to slay the monster that gave him away. 

The alderman gave him a bath, grim faced, and a job. A noonwraith, on the edge of town. 

His daughter, who people knew the murderer of, but could never pin. 

The murderer who Lambert buried deep, deep down, who beat his wife til she broke and his son til he was dreaming of knives in the dark, the murderer who likely took two other women to their graves before a Witcher came to kill a monster. 

It had helped, digging that grave. The repetitive motions, dragging the soil free, tossing it aside, all the anger and pain had come pouring out of him then as he dug, and dug, and dug. He’d been hollowed out by the end, a clean days work for his father’s filth. 

He puts the White Gull aside and goes to pick up another shovel, stepping up next to Timur to start digging a grave for his brother. Maybe if he digs deep enough some of his hate for all he’s got left will ease along with it.

They’re done before noon, and go back to bathe and change into clean clothes. Timur silently hands him one of Cullen’s nicer gambesons that more or less fits and is dyed a deep, soft blue that he likes quite a lot, and Lambert nods. They’ll divide his things later, as is proper, and Timur bows his head in silent exhaustion before straightening and pulling on Cullen’s cloak. 

Vesemir is waiting for them with most of the trainers, Rennes, and a large contingent of other Witchers in the Great Hall, and he nods at Timur to lead. Aiden melts out of the wall to walk with Lambert, and together they bring up the rear as Timur leads the horse and wagon carrying Cullen’s body out. 

Aiden’s quiet but he stays close, and Lambert glares at Remus when he glances back at them and sneers. 

Lots of people liked Cullen. He was the definition of likable to most people. Cheerful, got on well with people, kind, a bit thick sometimes but always eager to help, and easy to fluster; not much like Lambert. He’d been an asshole to Lambert, though he grew out of the worst of it, so Lambert’s willing to accept the bullshit others thought of him. He knows there will be people thinking that he should be the one in the grave, but too bad. Cullen made his errors, and it’s Cullen being lowered down. 

Geralt, Eskel, and Gweld would come see him off. Maybe Rand and Garret. Vesemir, of course. Barmin who tended the herbs, Ulfric if he could be pulled away. Rennes went to every Wolf burial or pyre. But that would likely be it. 

If Aiden could… he might. He’s carrying something, Lambert notes, and realizes that it’s a small carved wolf totem in the Mettina style, very small, with a string around it. Aiden sees him looking and passes it over. 

“For your brother, the living one,” he says quietly, nodding at it as Lambert turns it over in his hands. “They’re… it’s tradition. We give carved cats to the one closest to the one who passed, as a memory keeper and defender when traveling, they’re spelled for a bit of added safety. I had Primrose, one of our mages, spell it this morning.” 

“Helpful and morbid,” Lambert says, and Aiden nods. 

The actual funeral is short. Rennes says a few words, Vesemir a few more, Timur stands quietly at the grave, and then people talk about their memories of him. There’s a lot of Cullen laughing, being a little shit, getting in trouble, but it’s said fondly. Lambert doesn’t offer anything of his own. Cullen was a piece of shit until two years ago, far worse than him, and he’d suffered plenty under his hands until he grew up. 

Everyone helps to shovel in the dirt after Vesemir gently lowers him into the grave, and Lambert goes last to smooth the mound over before coming to stand by a stone faced and quiet Timur. Varin gives Lambert a short glare as he heads back with most of the group, and Vesemir just shakes his head as he starts gathering stones for the cairn. 

“He’s got something for you,” Lambert says, and Aiden comes over to give Timur the little wolf. Timur’s mouth wobbles, and he carefully holds it in one big, meaty hand. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly when Aiden explains it. “It means a lot.” 

Aiden claps him on the shoulder, and joins Lambert on his other side as Vesemir finishes the grave marker by shoving both steel and silver into the ground to either side of the cairn. He steps back, looking at the mound of stones, and sighs heavily. 

“You two get out of here,” he says, not looking at Aiden or Lambert. “I need words with Timur, and with the dead. I expect Rennes is sitting vigil tonight in the small hall, if you feel like attending.” 

Lambert bumps Timur’s shoulder and gets a nod in return, and together he and Aiden start the trek back to Kaer Morhen over the endless bodies buried below the earth. Aiden takes his arm, leaning his head on his shoulder, and Lambert stumbles. 

“Uh-” 

“Shut up,” Aiden says mildly. “I’m sad and I need something to hold onto, and you’re the most convenient thing. I fucking hate funerals. I’ve been to too many.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Lambert mutters, and pauses to look up at the bulk of Kaer Morhen. Aiden stops with him, smelling of sadness and exhaustion. Lambert doesn’t know what he might smell like. Confused feelings, probably. Grave dirt. “Fuck, I hate this. I hate being a Witcher. I hate all the death, and the disasters, and burying people, and I hate the fucking trainers for beating us bloody when there were enough other things to beat us out in the real world. I hate this shit just so fucking much.” 

Aiden nods, turning to bury his face against his neck, and Lambert just lets him. The day is cold and the world is awful, and he just. He _hates_. 

“Want to get bombs and go fishing and maybe get very drunk and have a good scream?” Aiden asks. 

“Melitele’s tits, yes,” Lambert says fervently. 

So they do. 

It’s the only good part of a very bad day, and when they bring back a basket of fish for dinner that clearly weren’t caught with hooks, no one says anything. Rennes gently ruffles Lambert’s hair as he passes, and Vesemir doesn’t come down for dinner. The mood is somber, but the fish is good, and when Lambert stumbles into bed very fucking drunk indeed, he doesn’t fight when Aiden wraps him up in his arms and rubs his cheeks against the top of Lambert’s head. 

It is what it is, death and destruction a part of his life, and Lambert falls asleep to Aiden half whispering, half singing about a rose and thistle on a cliffside. There’s the vigil in the small hall that the others are likely attending, but he just. He can’t. 

He’ll take his lumps for it later, but Aiden is warm and gentle, and Lambert cannot bear the thought of being out of this quiet, safe room now.

oOo

Morning comes too soon, and with it, chores. Lambert goes through his routine in a hungover daze, barely noticing Rand and Garret fussing over him, and when he gets back upstairs he finds Aiden buckling on his armor. The Cat armor really isn’t meant for cold weather, but within the walls and once they’ve warmed up it should be fine. It’s the Superior class, relatively expensive, and Lambert’s estimation of how effective Aiden is on the Path goes up. He’s barely managed to scrape together enough money and bribes to get the armorers to give him better than basic gear.

“Training?” Aiden says, and Lambert nods. 

“Yeah. Let’s.” 

They wind up in one of the training courtyards, a nicer one that’s still mostly free of snow, and Aiden goes through a round of stretches as Lambert works through sword forms. There are a few other people sparring, but Lambert ignores them. They’re inconsequential, and they’re all on the older end and therefore won’t bother them. 

He finishes a warmup strike just in time to turn and see Aiden pull a leg up behind his head to touch his head to his boot, and stares. 

“Damn,” he says after a moment. “Bendy. That a Cat thing?” 

Aiden looks over at him, confused, and lets his leg go. It doesn’t drop, he deliberately lowers it slowly. “You can’t do that?” 

“No I fucking well cannot touch my head to my foot, did you dislocate your damn spine to do that?”

Aiden just grins at him, and drops into a full splint without even thinking. Lambert’s eyes go wide as he winces on instinct. Aiden doesn’t look even a little uncomfortable though, and his grin turns thoroughly unrepentant as he laughs at Lambert’s expression.

“You aren’t fucking normal,” he accuses him, jabbing his sword in Aiden’s direction for emphasis. “What the fuck.” 

Aiden just cackles and easily gets back up, pulling out some longer short swords. “Yeah, yeah. Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.” 

Lambert grins, and flicks Aard at him to send him flying without so much as a by your leave. Aiden whoops as he twists in the air, thumping against the wall and pushing back off with an easy flip, throwing a small dagger as he goes, and Lambert barely dodges it before Aiden’s own Aard is rushing for him. 

“Ah, shit,” he mutters, and dives out of the way into a roll. He’s barely back on his feet when he catches sight of Aiden grinning like a loon.

“Again!” Aiden demands, bounding over to him. “Again, again!” 

Well, he did ask. Lambert Aards him, and Aiden shrieks with delight as he flies at the wall again. 

Gods, he’s so _weird_. But it is fun.

They get wrapped up in Aiden getting thrown and returning fire, falling into a pattern, and before long they’re having a frankly delightful time bouncing around the courtyard. The other Witchers have either fucked off or are sitting on barrels watching them. Aubry’s among them, and he cackles like a broken duck call every time Aiden manages to do fun twists or flips, and Lambert’s actually smiling by the time they’ve worked up a sweat. 

They’re halfway through a particularly exciting exchange that’s seen Aiden toss four daggers (where does he _keep_ them?) and Lambert nearly manage to catch him on the chest with his steel when a voice booms out over the courtyard.

“Aiden!” 

Aiden jumps out of range, making Lambert grimace, and holds up his hand in a quick ‘hold on’ motion. Lambert glowers, turning to see who’s interrupted their practice. 

The Cat walking towards them is the very definition of the word dour, tall and thin with a face like he’s got a lemon in his mouth and a permanent set of frown lines. His hair is cut short to hide a very receding hairline, and long since gone silver. He’s wearing the usual masterwork Cat armor but in a very nice dark green, and massive burn scars curl up his arms. Lambert glances at Aiden to judge how he’s supposed to react. Aiden’s not smiling, his face gone flat, and as Lambert watches he sheaths his knives. He almost seems smaller, all of a sudden, and Lambert glances back at the Cat with growing suspicion. Heavy scarring, old, eternally pissed off and/or tired face… trainer. Has to be. 

“Master Guxart,” Aiden says, and that seals it. “Did you need me?” 

“You’re late,” Guxart says crisply. “The meeting has started. Dasha is asking for you, everyone else is there.” 

Aiden smiles prettily. “Oh, I forgot. I’m certain they could have the meeting without one third year-” 

“ _Aiden_ ,” Guxart says, and there’s no friendliness to his voice now. “Johannes and Terrance are already there. Move.” 

The smile disappears. 

Lambert glares at the older Cat. “Bit fucking rude, aren’t you?” 

Guxart finally deigns to look at him, and eyes him for a moment before visibly dismissing him. “Not as rude as Wolf puppies who can’t mind their tongue around their elders.” 

A heavy and unfortunately familiar hand slaps down hard on Lambert’s shoulder to keep him from lunging forward at the Cat, teeth bared, and Vesemir drags him back with ease as he says, “Guxart, come now, no need to be like that. They were just training, it’s easy to let time get away from you when your blood is up.” His grip on Lambert’s shoulder tightens to the point of pain and Lambert reluctantly stops fighting him. “Good for this one to be learning new techniques, anyway, he’s well suited to the Cat’s style as Aiden is for Wolf. We’ll have to see about some more joint practices, if Dasha can spare him.” 

Guxart visibly relaxes, and Lambert seethes as he gives Vesemir a small smile. “Cooler heads prevail, Master Vesemir. I will keep your offer in mind. Aiden, we’re going.” 

Aiden follows him, and Lambert watches as Aiden quietly vanishes into the Keep before rounding on Vesemir. 

“What the _fuck_ was that about,” he hisses, and Vesemir sighs. “I had every right-” 

“Guxart is known as the Dragonfly,” Vesemir tells him bluntly. “Because he makes a hobby out of collecting dragonfly wings that he’s taken from them mid flight, with thrown swords. Not daggers, swords. He’s that good. He would eat you alive and then Aiden for not backing his play, boy, and unfortunately I’m attached to your particular kind of chaos. Go get cleaned up, and then go find Gweld and send him down to the armory.” 

Lambert grimaces. “Why Gweld?” 

“Varin’s shafted me with the armory today and I’m liable to commit a murder or eight by the end of the day if you don’t beat me to it, and Gweld’s even tempered enough to calm me down,” Vesemir says dryly. “Get, boy. I don’t know if I’m getting more like you or you like me but we both need to cool off before we do something we’d regret.” 

“I wouldn’t regret it.” 

“That’s the problem. Neither would I.”

Life was a lot easier when he could just hate the man, Lambert thinks as he storms off. Stupid fucking Cats and stupid fucking Vesemir and goddamn Cullen dying and leaving him feeling things, ugh. 

Gweld is easy to find at least, dicing in the main room, and he takes off at an obedient trot while Lambert trudges off to get his clothes and go bathe. The rest of his afternoon is open, so he takes off to go and check the distillery in the far corner of the keep. 

Ulfric is there, and he brightens as soon as he spots Lambert in the corner. “Ah, my boy! You will not _believe_ the things we’ve been doing with the new White Gull recipe, and I’ve been checking on your vodka and it’s come out beautifully! Also I’m pulling you out of Nilfgaardian, I need you with me to manage the boys as a teaching assistant in the class for defensive alchemy, how was the Path? I understand you’re rooming with a Cat this year, that’s new! Oh, here, can you measure this for me?” 

If there’s one Wolf that Lambert genuinely likes, it’s probably Ulfric. Ulfric is the only Wolf to ever refuse to leave Kaer Morhen. He passed his Trials with flying colors, got his swords, and declared that he wasn’t leaving because someone had to be the alchemist and the one they currently had wasn’t good enough. And so he’s stayed put and become a master of craft. Ulfric teaches alchemy, spirit making, and philosophy if he’s especially drunk, and has always seen Lambert’s skills with bombs, alcohol, and pickling as delightful because he’s a man of refinement and taste. 

Lambert just takes up a place next to him rather than asking what he’s supposed to be measuring, and grins as Ulfric bounds away to check a cask. He’s a small man, nearly half a foot shorter than Lambert and deceptively rotund. He’s lightning fast on the training grounds regardless of his bulk, and his frizzled black hair and big green eyes give him the look of someone who’s just been struck by lightning at most any moment. That, plus the complete lack of eyebrows. 

Then it registers. 

“Wait, what the fuck do you mean you’re making me a teaching assistant?” 

Lambert spends most of his afternoon bickering with Ulfric about his decision to make him a teaching assistant while fucking around with alcohols and vats and then gets to actually look in on his resting vodka tests from last year, which seem to be coming along perfectly and should be perfect for drinking now, and then Ulfric drags him up to the stillroom pantry to check on the pickles, and really it’s a pretty nice way to spend an afternoon. 

By the time he goes back down to the great hall for dinner he’s almost calm. Almost.

Eskel and the two idiots join him for dinner again, and Lambert refuses to think about them deliberately leaving the place at his right side open as they all bicker together. 

Aiden shows up late, surprising no one, and makes himself a nuisance without delay.

“So many damn stairs here,” Aiden gripes, and immediately steals a piece of potato before grabbing a plate to serve himself from the communal dishes. “Lambert, you asshole, you left your mending in my pile, do it again and I’ll do it all in pink.” 

“You have pink thread?” Lambert whistles. “Big spender, here.” 

“It was a payment, and I’m good at invisible mending, fuck you,” Aiden says cheerily. 

Lambert rolls his eyes and finds Eskel staring at him. He raises an eyebrow, shoving a piece of meat his mouth. “Wha’?” he demands. 

Eskel blinks, looking at his plate, and then just shakes his head. “Nothing.” 

“S’obviously something fucker, spit it out.” 

“Your table manners are awful, I don’t know why Aiden’s still eating with us,” Eskel says, which is the most cowardly deflection Lambert’s ever seen but whatever. Lambert just snorts and passes Aiden the rolls when he whines and makes grabbing hands at them like some sort of petulant child. 

Aiden’s a little too manic through dinner, jittery to the point of distracting, and by the time Lambert finally drags him back up to their room he’s flopped back and forth between quiet and incredibly noisy at least three times. It’s a little unnerving. 

“- and then the horse just like, fell over, how weird is that?” Aiden finishes with a flourish, arms waving wide, and shoves his shirt sleeves up. “Isn’t that weird? I think it’s weird.” 

Lambert catches Aiden’s arm and frowns, turning it over. There’s a bandage at the crook of the elbow. “What’d you do? I didn’t catch you there during training.” 

Aiden pulls his arm away, turning to busy himself with the chest at the foot of the bed. “It’s nothing. The mages are drawing blood once a week for testing, checking the mutagen levels and things like that.” 

“You’re too old for a mutation overload, aren’t you?” Lambert asks, confused. “It stops when you’re six months past.” 

“Mm, theoretically. I don’t want to talk about it.” Aiden shuts the trunk, dragging his jerkin and shirt off to replace it with his nightshirt. He’s suddenly subdued. “Fuck, I’m so tired after dinner’s here, what’s wrong with me? And I know you want to grab onto this like a dog with a bone and shake me until I tell you everything, but I’m going to ask you, very nicely, not to. At least not right now. I feel like shit and I just want to get quietly drunk and pass out.” 

Lambert grimaces, then sighs. Unfortunately, Aiden has him dead to rights. “Fine. White Gull or some of the new vodka?” 

“Is it the flavored kind you told me about?” 

“Yeah, with strawberries. Checked it today, looks like it’s good to go.” 

Aiden lights up. “Ooh, tasty. Gimme.” 

“Greedy little shit,” Lambert sighs. “Stay put, I’ll fetch a few bottles.” 

Once they’re a solid three bottles in and Aiden is sprawled over Lambert’s chest and purring, Lambert mumbles, “S no’ right. Takin’ blood. Should be over it.” 

“Mm,” Aiden manages, nestling up under Lambert’s jaw. This particular batch of vodka is way stronger than he’d planned, and the strawberries were an _excellent_ addition. Lambert’s going to have to make about 20 cases of this recipe, he’s definitely a fan. “S’not too bad. Only bleed me a little. Well. Witcher little. Kinda lots.” 

He’s purring, the rumble of it against Lambert’s chest occasionally tripping him into purring back, and really, this has been a thoroughly acceptable night except for the bleeding thing. 

“Don’t like it,” Lambert sighs, and pulls back so he can bury his nose in Aiden’s hair to smell for pain. Aiden just smells like contentment and soap, which does funny things to his insides, so he settles back and lets Aiden whine at him until he can get his head tucked under Lambert’s jaw again. Gods, he’s so whiny when he wants something. It’s adorable, in a very annoying kind of way. He’s going to be very upset about that thought in the morning, but for now it’s fine. 

Aiden’s absently running his fingers over his arm, tracing random patterns. “Don’t go tonight?” 

“Day off,” Lambert grunts, “don’t have watch.” 

“Yesssss,” Aiden says, in something between a hiss and a purr, and makes a sort of happy wriggle. “Warm.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

They fall asleep flopped together, and stay that way until Lambert sits bolt upright, suddenly full of rage. It’s dark, the fire long since burned down to embers in the hearth, and Aiden is a solid bulk beside him. His hair is a tangle on the pillow, dark in the barely lit room, and Lambert kicks him, hard. 

Aiden comes too with a grunt, looking up at him and frowning sleepily. “Lettin’ the cold in,” he mumbles. 

“You stole my _fucking food_ ,” Lambert hisses, irate. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kick you out of this fucking bed for that.” 

Aiden blinks at him, confused. “What?” 

“At dinner! You stole my potatoes.” 

Aiden’s gold eyes stare up at him, and to Lambert’s baffled shock, he starts smiling so sweetly Lambert can practically taste sugar. “Oh, fuck, I did, didn’t I? C’mon, lay back down Lambert. I’ll get you potatoes every day for the rest of your life if you’ll let me keep at it, promise. C’mere, m’cold.” 

One big hand gently finds his arm to tug him down, and Lambert goes, so startled he doesn’t know what to do. He just flops down, and Aiden slides over to cling to him. Lambert stares at the top of the canopy, and doesn’t even move as Aiden starts purring low in his throat and sleepily smears his cheek against Lambert’s shoulder as he falls back asleep. 

“Fucking weird asshole,” he whispers, and reluctantly falls back asleep to Aiden’s low purrs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for: threats of violence, mentions of drug abuse.

Monday finally comes, and with it, classes. 

“Where the fuck is my small bag?!” 

“On the bookshelf,” Aiden says as he finger combs his hair and fusses with his gear, dodging out of the way as Lambert seizes the bag with a cry of outrage. “Fuck’s sake, Lambert, calm down.” 

“You haven’t ever been late to one of Ironass Garren’s lectures,” Lambert says, checking and double checking that he does have a fresh notebook and at least two pens with ink pots, and a bit of dried meat for when he inevitably gets hungry between classes. “Come _on_ , if we’re late he’ll give us double work and chores.” 

“Can he do that when I’m a guest- Oh, damn, okay, turn off the rage face, I’m going!” 

They make it to the classroom wing just in time for everyone else to get there, and Lambert cranes his head around a fifth year to get a look at the classroom listings on the board. There are 8 different classes this hour, and he groans when he sees that Introductory Skelliger is being held on the fourth floor of the tower, with Journeyman Potioneering afterwards on the first floor, and then History of the Pontar back on the fourth floor. Nilfgaardian for Aiden is going to be on the 3rd, lucky bastard. He grabs Aiden, who’s mid conversation with Gweld, and starts shouldering his way through the throng. 

“Gweld’s taking Bestiary Creation this hour,” Aiden whines as they break through the worst of the crowd and head up the stairs. “Why’d we have to get here so late? I hate language classes. Why does this even matter, anyway? What’s the punishment if we fail?”

Lambert groans, dodging a confused looking Aubry. “Depending on what grades you get averaged out you get free gear and supplies at the end of the Winter,” he explains. “Or first pick when choosing new rooms, or a new horse, that sort of shit. Highest overall grades gets a full set of masterwork armor for free.” 

“Oh damn,” Aiden whistles. “So you’re all nerds for profit.” 

Lambert snarls incoherently, and they barely make it into the room and into seats before Garren bangs the door open and stomps in. Timur skids in behind him and practically throws himself in the last seat, behind Lambert.

Lambert leans back. “Timur.” 

“Yeah?”

“You’re fluent in Skelliger.” 

Timur gives him a bit of a smile. “Garren doesn’t know that. ‘Sides, I could use a refresher.” 

“Nice,” Lambert says, approving, and Garren thumps the roll charts on the small podium and fishes out a pair of delicate spectacles to glare at them. Garren’s one of the older Wolves, and he’s taught most of the basic classes for the young ones since time forgotten. Lambert unfortunately knows him well.

“12 of you, not bad, nice mix of Grassed and Pathed, hmm, yes. Alright, let’s get to it ladies. Adan of Maribor?” 

“Here, sir!” 

“Aiden Kett?” 

Aiden flicks a hand in the air, and Lambert kicks his seat. Aiden shoots him a look but adds, “Here, sir.”

The class is exactly as boring as expected. Garren launches directly into theory, rather than an introduction to the actual language, and Aiden seems to realize about the time that he looks around and finds everyone feverishly taking notes from the scrawled instructions on the chalkboard that this is, in fact, a serious class and not something he can just wing. Even Timur is taking notes. 

When the bell booms the hour to release them Lambert scrambles to grab his things, hooks a hand in one of Aiden’s chest harness straps, and tows him out the door. 

“History of the Pontar’s going to be in the same room as Skelliger,” he says as he hauls Aiden bodily down the stairs. “I have to go assist Ulfric, so you’re on your own for Nilfgaardian, do _not_ backtalk Argent unless you have a good exit strategy, remember to say sir after your “here”, take good notes because he’s a fucking brutal test maker. Oh, great, Eskel’s taking Nilfgaardian too, you can bond.” 

Eskel grins from where he’s waiting by the door, looking very much the picture of a well to do Witcher in a comfortable red shirt and dyed black buckskin breeches, his gambeson buckled down comfortably. “Hey, you two.” 

Lambert shoves Aiden into place next to him. “Eskel, keep an eye on this, I have to go deal with the brats.” 

Eskel slings an arm around Aiden’s shoulders, chuckling. “You’re such a mother hen, little man.” 

Lambert smiles beatifically at him while flipping him off, and bolts down the stairs. Too many fucking stairs in this godsdamned keep, that’s for sure, but he makes it to the laboratory in time and immediately has a slate shoved into his hand with the names on it. It’s a class of 14, alarmingly large for an alchemy class, and Ulfric gives him a frazzled smile. 

“Call roll, please, I’m still trying to get everything set up,” he says, and bustles off to the back of the room where the cabinetry is. Lambert waits for the last few stragglers to come in before shoving his fingers in his mouth for a piercing whistle that makes the group shut up. It’s mostly younger boys but there’s a few 2nd and 3rd year Path Witchers looking at him with trepidation, and one 11 year that looks thoroughly sheepish about being there. His reputation has clearly preceded him.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” Lambert says, “and if any one of you little shits calls me sir I’m going to throw you out a window, I’m not a knight. Alden of Roggeven!” 

Class goes shockingly well, and then Lambert has to run all the way back up the four stupidly winding floors to make it back in time for History of the Pontar. He flops into the seat Aiden’s saved for him and fishes out his notebook. “This one’s a Cat, right?” 

“Yeah, Itakris,” Aiden says with a nod. “How were the kids?” 

“Awful little beasts every one of them, they’re doing great. Nilfgaardian?” 

“I’m doomed,” Aiden says brightly. “Did you know they have _eight_ different formality levels?” 

“Damn,” Lambert winces, and the door opens to reveal a tall Cat witcher dressed in the comfortable pantaloons of Nazair and a loose shirt opened halfway down his chest, a double belt of knives resting on his hips. He’s several shades darker than Aiden and has a similar handsome curve to his nose. His hair is all black curls, muddy brown-green-gold doe eyes making him look especially harmless. There are heavy dark circles under his eyes and he seems incredibly tired, but he makes an effort to smile at them. 

“8 of you, that’s more than I expected,” he says, his voice melodic and lightly accented. “I’m Master Itakris of Muredach, please just call me Kris, and you poor things are a captive audience to my passions, I’m afraid. We’ll be focusing on the Greater Pontar area and discussing the rise and fall of civilizations along the length of it, as well as the flora, fauna, and wider cultural and economic impact of the river. Oh, right, and Wolves take roll, I suppose I should do that…” 

Kris launches directly into the first civilization on the river, and by the time classes end for lunch, Lambert has the sneaking suspicion he’s going to need at least two more notebooks this year. Gweld, the fucker, is as bubbly as ever, and Geralt’s managed to get out of taking anything but Book Restoration by getting snagged to teach winter horsemanship, because Geralt is _weird about horses_ and thrilled about life. Eskel complains with Aiden and Lambert about language classes, but the lucky bastard also managed to snag History of Pornographic Ballads, so Lambert does not feel bad for him at all. 

There’s a mad scramble for everyone to split for weapons practice after lunch, and Lambert gets his gear on as Aiden just adds more knives to his everyday wear. The Cats are meant to be training in one of the bigger side chambers, not the salle, so they split off from each other and Lambert barely makes it into the salle on time after helping Aiden find the right hallway. 

The salle is in the heart of Kaer Morhen, and hung with sheets of polished silver to allow them to check their forms against it. Once it had been mirrors, but those hadn’t lasted long, and the mages wouldn’t make any more. The floor is hardwood, replaced once a year since Witcher boots are hard on it, and there are painted sections to demarcate where each sparring pair must contain themselves within in order to not take out the others in the room. Half of the Wolves are there, the other half in the outdoor workyard, and Lambert comes to a stop next to Remus. The pair of them eye each other, and then pointedly look away.

Rothgrim’s their indoor work instructor this year, and he grins at them with reckless abandon before yanking his swords free and bellowing, “Pair up, we’re going through drills!” 

There’s an extremely loud groan from everyone in the room, and Lambert grimaces when he finds Geralt sliding into place across from him. 

“Bastard,” he mutters, pulling out his steel. He refuses to be apprehensive, because Geralt is nothing if not the consummate Witcher and will pull his strikes if he sees something going wrong, but Geralt also hits harder than just about anyone else and he is definitely going to be black and blue by the time he gets to the baths tonight unless he gets clever with it. 

Geralt just smiles, lazily swinging his blade up to guard, and Lambert braces to meet him. 

“No Signs, no potions, nothing but swords!” Rothgrim roars over the noise of conversation. “Focus on that footwork, boys, I want you stepping pretty as ladies at court and I want to see clean strikes out of all of you. You see something going wrong, you stop and correct it. Full speed!” 

The groan that goes up at that is even louder, and Rothgrim laughs. 

“We practice correctly because?” he calls. 

The stupid saying is drilled into every Witcher’s head by Vesemir over and over from the first day they set foot in the sword work arenas, called out at random moments for a response. Every voice in the hall responds automatically, even Lambert’s. 

“ _Practicing wrong is the right way to get killed_.” 

“That’s my boys! Guards up, let’s have some noise!” 

Geralt swings, and the sheer force of it nearly sends Lambert flying, but he just rolls with the momentum offered by that force and leaps to the side to cut upwards at Geralt’s side. He catches the faintest flash of a grin and then they’re off. 

Later, when he’s sulking in the pool and nursing his incredibly sore ribs, Geralt brings him an apple turnover and that does wonders for Lambert’s mood. He considers as he munches through his treat and Geralt washes his hair, how one might go about actually taking Geralt down in a sword only fight. He’s fast, and he hits like a forge press, but he _is_ sloppy sometimes because he gets used to being the fastest man around and therefore a pain in the ass. 

Aiden might have some ideas, actually. He decides to pick his roommate’s brain about the problem and goes back to munching his turnover, focusing his attention instead on the problem of his newest pickle recipe before he has to drag himself up for kitchen work. 

Aiden himself doesn’t walk into the great hall for dinner so much as hobble in, face fixed into a mulish pout, and he winces as he sits down. Gweld’s not joined them, sitting instead with a Cat that he befriended in one of his classes, but Geralt and Eskel make appropriate noises of concern as Aiden gingerly reaches for the rolls. 

“Guxart decided I haven’t been working hard enough,” Aiden explains, snagging the butter dish. “He put me through my paces to see where I’m at without stretching and it’s not good. So I’ve got a whole regimen I have to do now, it’s very exciting.” 

“Fun,” Lambert drawls, passing him the carrots. 

“Oh yes,” Aiden sighs. He flops over, head leaning into Lambert’s shoulder as he absently rubs his cheek against him. “Carry me up to the room.” 

“Fuck off, no,” Lambert informs him, shoveling some of the potatoes onto Aiden’s plate. “Eat already, you lazy little shit.” 

“Mean,” Aiden says mournfully, “so mean to me.” 

“Dunno where you ever got the idea I was nice.” 

Geralt and Eskel exchange glances, but say nothing. Lambert scowls at them, and gets back to work on his food. 

When they do eventually get back to their room, it’s only after a detour to pick up some books on Skelliger and a History of Rinde (which, ugh, why did they even have that?) plus a couple of fiction books for Lambert and some truly awful erotica for Aiden. Lambert gives him grief about it the entire way back, because he’s read all of it and all the erotica in the damn building is terrible, with the possible exception of Geralt’s meticulously curated collection, but that’s because Geralt’s a disaster and a book snob. 

Aiden, because he’s just as opinionated as Lambert is, informs him that since he’s already made it clear he’s uninterested in Aiden’s sexual life, he can fuck off. 

They make it all of a half an hour of reading (Aiden) and lace making (Lambert) before there’s a quick knocking on the door. Lambert glances at Aiden, who glances at him, and shrugs. He gets up, pulling it open, and realizes what’s going on. Tjold is there, looking like he’s just drank rotten milk. 

“Tjold,” Lambert says, looking down his nose.

“Lambert,” Tjold says. They survey each other, frostily polite. “Study group?” 

Lambert’s eyes narrow. “Alchemy?” 

“Yep. In exchange for Skelliger.” 

They continue eyeing each other. Finally, Lambert nods. “Deal. I’m calling it off if you bring Remus.” 

“Like I would,” Tjold sneers. “I’ll book study room 3 for every other day after dinner.” 

Lambert nods, and shuts the door. Aiden looks up from his book, curious, and Lambert goes back to his lace and picks up his bobbins. “We have a study group now?” 

“Yeah,” Lambert says, bobbins clacking as he starts the twisting and pinning again. “It makes things easier when you have to write papers. I’m surprised Tjold came here first, but maybe Geralt’s being grumpy. He’s a nerd, everyone wants him for study group. Tjold’s a dick but he’s mostly fine, he’s a 6 year. Knew him a little when I was coming up, he was getting his medallion about the time I got Grassed.” 

“Grassed,” Aiden muses, and Lambert notices he’s got the lace bookmark out again to run through his fingers. “It’s interesting how we use different terms for the same things. We say “were Trialed”. Do you still use Trialed, or is it mostly Grassed?” 

“Mm, some of the older ones call it being Trialed, but most of us use Grassed,” Lambert says, stopping to consider for a moment. “I guess it makes sense that the linguistic shift would happen between two different schools but still carry aspects of the same terms, but I think part of the shift must have to do with the current age range of all of the Witchers available. We’re mostly on the middle end of the scale, skewing a little more young since we have a lot more survivors than Cat does, which means that more current slang is faster to enter the vocabulary and faster to leave it while there’s still some holdover from older phrasings.” He glances at Aiden, who looks a little taken aback. “What?” 

Aiden shakes his head, sitting back. “No, I agree, do go on. Most of the Cats are much older, we started having a lot fewer successes about half a decade ago and now I’m the youngest.” 

“That explains some things,” Lambert mutters, and Aiden kicks him. “Fuck off! And hand me that book, I need to look at verb conjugation for fucking in Skelliger, I’m pretty sure I’ve been saying it wrong.”

“Nerd,” Aiden says, and passes it to him.

oOo

“Dasha wants to have Wolves join us for practice,” Aiden tells him when they meet up for lunch, three weeks into their Wintering and two weeks into their classes. “So I’m inviting you, because you’re the least likely person to break me for asking.”

Lambert, who’s halfway through his stupid fucking essay on the Greater Pontar Watershed and all its wonders, looks up and has to take a moment to parse what the fuck Aiden’s said. “That’s a bad idea. How hard does Itakris grade on handwriting?” 

“Medium, he likes things legible.” Aiden cranes his head to look at his paper. “You’ll be fine. That’s not due until Friday at evening bell.” 

“Jokes on you, catmint head, today is Friday.” 

Aiden falls off of his bench, grabs some rolls, and bolts from the hall. Lambert returns his attention to the fifteen diagrams he has spread out around him, and hisses when Geralt appears with his food and nearly spills his ale on them. 

“If you damage even one of these pox rotted ugly ass maps Varin will take it out of my hide, not yours,” he snaps, “and I’ve still got the final analysis to write on this thing. Explain to me what the Greater Pontar Watershed has to do with hunting and killing beasts because I would surely like to know.” 

Geralt just smiles, and passes him another roll. Lambert tears into it, grunting his thanks, and gets back to work. 

He gets full marks on his paper. Aiden gets double homework for a week. 

When Monday comes Lambert’s informed by Rothgrim in the morning to treat Cat training like the classes held in the salle, and not to get sloppy. Lambert just nods, because he’s too tired to back talk, and by the time he drags on his gear after lunch and follows Aiden to the largest of the classrooms, which has been turned into a secondary salle for the Cats. This one has the sheet metal walls and wooden floors, same as the main salle, but there are also targets set up along the walls as well, and the Cat contingent all call their greetings as Aiden and Lambert come through the door. 

Sixteen Cats came to the treaty negotiations, and he knows some of them on sight, but most of them are unknowns. Dasha, of course, is unmistakable.

He’s seen Dasha a number of times by now at dinner, but Dasha up close is the most terrifying mix of beautiful and deadly that Lambert’s ever encountered. He thinks that this must be what sorceresses are like, when Dasha turns to face him and those kohl lined eyes meet his. Today he’s not in a skirt, exactly, but he is in a very long sturdy black fabric coat that buckles across his chest, tucking in to emphasize his incredibly narrow waist, and has long, flowing tails that swirl as he moves. The tails are split in four, allowing him access to knives along his legs, and his swords are much shorter than the average Witcher sword lengths. His nails are painted black, and Lambert desperately wants to know how to do that.

“Ah,” Dasha says, and his voice is surprisingly deep and mellow. “Aiden, this is your… friend?” 

“My roommate, yes,” Aiden says, and Dasha holds out an elegant hand to Lambert. He has beautiful hands, long fingered and graceful, with knife scars all over them. “Master Dasha of Stygga, this is Lambert.” 

Lambert takes the offered hand, and is extremely flustered when he automatically bends and touches the knuckles to his forehead in a polite bow. By the time he’s straightened, Dasha looks mildly interested and the other Cats look very amused. Guxart looks like he’s holding back a grin. He steps back awkwardly, knowing his face must be horribly red. 

“Lambert of where?” Dasha asks, not commenting on the fact that Lambert has just given him the deference one is meant to give a noble lady of at least the rank of Duchess and not a big, strong, male Witcher. 

“Nowhere,” Lambert says quietly. “Just Lambert. No last name.” 

Dasha considers him for a moment, then nods. “Very well, Just Lambert, welcome to our training session. Aiden, help him with the warm ups, I’ve seen the wolves sparring and I’m not certain how much range of motion he’ll have.” He leans in, rubbing his cheek against Aiden’s before he strides away, tails trailing gently behind. Lambert watches him go. 

“C’mon,” Aiden says, and drags him over to a corner of the salle. “Stretches first, you don’t have Cat flexibility but I know we can get you at least a little better than you are.” 

“First of all, fuck you,” Lambert says without heat, because he’s just watched two of Aiden’s brothers back flip off of each other while throwing knives to hit targets and fuck _everything else_ , he wants to do that. “How do I stretch?” 

Fifteen minutes later, Aiden’s leaning on his back and definitely grinning as Lambert curses him out in four different languages while holding onto his toes. “Just another 16 count and then we’ll start stretching your hips. You whine like an old man, you baby, you should be able to touch your forehead to your knees.” 

“Fuck you,” Lambert says, strangled, and Aiden snickers. 

Dasha stops beside them, eyeing Lambert critically. “Hmm. Potential, but if you want to learn anything too demanding you’ll be working very hard indeed. You’ve learned bad habits, not stretching daily. Hold him for another 16 count after and then run him through knife forms once you’re done with his stretches, see how much work he’ll be. If he’s to join us for classes, he’s your responsibility, kitten.” 

He swans away, and Lambert hisses out another string of curses as he feels his cheeks heat up again. Dasha is terribly pretty.

“Well?” Aiden says cruelly, right in his ear. “Which is it, Lambert? Gonna let me bend you til you break or sit back and watch?” 

“You realize I get to put you through your paces for Wolf training tomorrow, right?” Lambert hisses, and forces his head down closer to his knees. It has absolutely nothing to do with Dasha at all, because wanting approval from a pretty face is not a thing Lambert has ever once experienced and he sure as hell isn’t going to start now.

There’s a couple cackles from the other side of the room, and Lambert watches the Cats do some more standing backflips. Itakris scolds them gently, using a long stick to point out weaknesses in their stances. 

“I wanna do that,” he says, and Aiden hums. 

“We’ll see. Not if you don’t get these hips loose though!” 

Once Lambert has been contorted into various unnatural shapes and run through dagger forms (which he was _good_ at, because no one trained by Vesemir was anything but fantastic with a blade, thank you very fucking much, he earned his skills) it was dinner time. Dasha stops them on the way out of the door, waving them over. 

“We’ve missed you after dinner, kitten,” he says, kind but firm. “Come tonight. You can bring him with you.” 

Aiden smiles, but it’s weak. “Yes, Grandmaster.” 

“Thank you,” Dasha says, and presses their cheeks together before he does the same to Lambert and leaves the room. Lambert’s pretty certain he’s gone red, but he refuses to say anything about it. 

Aiden’s quiet through dinner, and when Lambert finishes he says, very quietly, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” 

“No one makes me do jack shit that I don’t want to,” Lambert says crisply. “I’m going.” 

He gets a tiny smile in return, which is enough to tell him there’s something messed up going on, but he doesn’t say anything. He also doesn’t say anything when they change into their evening clothes and Aiden tucks the lace scrap into his sleeve. They’re about to leave when Lambert grabs his arm, tugging him back. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks, and Aiden huffs, looking at the door. 

“I’m… I’m the baby. I’m the youngest Cat. So they’re… a bit protective over me. They fuss. It makes me uncomfortable, sometimes, even though I know it’s just that they’re worried for me.” He grimaces, shifting uncomfortably. “And both of our mages are here, so that’s… fun. And then there’s this treaty, which I still know next to nothing about, and I just… I don’t know. I don’t want you getting stuck in the middle of it when things end up going wrong, and they’re _going_ to, because hammering out treaties is shit.” 

“Ah,” Lambert says, understanding. “Got it.” 

He had the feeling there was more to the story than met the eye, but so be it. He can harass it out of Aiden later. His eyes flick to the bend of Aiden’s elbow where he was bled, and he lets go. 

Dasha’s been put up in one of the suites that likely would have gone to one of the fifty-year Witchers this year, a comfortable suite with massive hearths, and the Cats have mostly congregated in the study on couches or sprawled en mass in front of the fire. Two mages are standing talking to Dasha through the door to the bedroom, one a very short woman and the other a waiflike man with bulbous eyes. 

“Oleander and Primrose,” Aiden murmurs when he sees where Lambert’s looking. “Oleander’s the lady, and mind yourself around them.” 

“Aiden!” Itakris calls from where he’s sitting propped on a pile of cushions, a sprawling tangle of limbs covering most of him. The Cats on him are all on the younger side and a mix of skin tones ranging from Skelligen pale to deep Southern Nilfgaardian dark. “Come here, catling.” 

“Hi, Kris,” Aiden says, and goes to rub cheeks with him before he’s allowed to step back again. Guxart, sharpening his knives on a couch, glances up. Aiden slinks over and does the cheek thing again, mumbling an apology, and the tangle of Cats straighten up to look at Lambert. 

“Uh, everyone, this is Lambert,” Aiden says awkwardly. “My roommate. Please don’t scare him off, he’s making sure I don’t get lost. Lambert, this is some of the Cat School. You know Master Dasha, Guxart, and Itakris, and there’s Oleander and Primrose. Kiyan, Treyse, and Kyprioth aren’t here, they’re the other masters who came. My brothers are Johannes, Axel, Cedric, Terrance, Uther, Gaetan, and Beauregard.” 

Lambert nods at them, feeling very awkward, and only feels more awkward when they move to make room for him and Aiden in the pile of limbs by the fire. Itakris gives him a reassuring smile, and Lambert waits for Aiden to get settled before slowly, warily settling down on the edge, head resting carefully against Aiden’s legs.

Someone throws a leg over his, pinning him a little, and Lambert feels his muscles go tense. But Aiden’s hand finds his hair, giving the smallest tug of reassurance, and then. 

Then the purring starts. 

It’s like being drugged, Lambert thinks hazily as someone shifts and he moves up so his head is resting on Aiden’s torso. He’s high. There’s no other explanation for how suddenly and thoroughly relaxed he is, when he should be uncomfortable and unhappy. He hasn’t slept like this more than a few times in his life, when he was before his trials, and even then he’d hated it, hated having so many bodies so close and no real privacy. 

Maybe the difference now is that he knows he has a space for himself, and this time, he’s not alone. Aiden is watching for him, hand still very gently resting in his hair, and Lambert lets out a deep, shuddering breath and lets his own purr well up to join the noise. Aiden’s fingers scratch gently at his scalp, and Lambert allows himself the weakness of burying his face against Aiden’s stomach as he breathes in all the combined scents of the Cats surrounding him. He can pick out a few distinct notes here and there, Aiden’s eternal lingering sandalwood and spice familiar enough that it’s almost becoming muted, but he’s curious in a vague sort of way about how heavily the scents all blur together. 

Someone’s talking in the room, vague noises that refuse to coalesce into words in his head, so he just curls up and lets himself be pet in the rumbling warmth of the pile. 

Eventually, Aiden lightly tugs at his hair, and Lambert looks up at him to see Aiden motioning for him to get up. The fire has died down, which means it’s probably late, and sure enough as he slowly stumbles to his feet his mouth opens in a jaw cracking yawn. Aiden follows, leaning into him and once again smearing his face along Lambert’s shoulder. Dasha beckons them over from his seat next to Guxart, and Lambert doesn’t even have the brainpower to be uncomfortable or surprised when Dasha does the same cheek to cheek touch that he does to the Cats. It’s scenting, he realizes vaguely as something new hits the air. Scent glands in their cheeks, they’re scenting each other. 

He almost feels like he should be upset about Aiden scenting him, but he can’t bring up the energy, and it’s not a bad thing anyway. 

They mumble their goodbyes and stumble all the way to bed, and by the time they’re stripped down and collapsing under the covers Lambert just wants to crawl into the warmth and sleep for ten years. Aiden flicks Igni at the fireplace to get the logs going, and starts to purr again as Lambert takes a leaf out of his book and shoves his head under Aiden’s chin. 

Perfect, he thinks as darkness wells up to drag him down into sleep. Just about perfect.

oOo

Tuesdays Lambert’s out in the cold weather for sword drills with the rest of the Wolves for training, which means he drags Aiden out to form ranks with everyone else in their rotation. Someone managed to talk Ammon into running the practices, and Aiden mutters curses the entire way through the strength training exercise, the short run through a snow covered section of the Killer, the lecture on keeping your sword arm limber and fluid, and then again when they’re turned loose and told to pair up and watch the other person and correct mistakes as they see them.

And then Aiden pulls out his sword and starts working. 

It’s a disaster. A collision course of two ships in the night. An absolute fucking mess of the highest caliber. Aiden carries on through the forms. When he comes to a halt Lambert stares at him, somewhere between amazed and horrified. “What was that?” 

Aiden blinks. “Sword forms?” 

“Yeah, maybe, if your opponent is a ten year old milkmaid who’s never held a butter knife,” he says, cackling. “Fuck’s sake, how’d you make it three years?” 

“I mostly use knives.” Aiden sticks his tongue out at him, thoroughly childish, and Lambert cackles louder, walking over to adjust his stance and get his arms in the right place. 

“Again, slower, so I can fix you when you start looking like a wounded duck,” he snickers, and Aiden glowers at him before moving through the form again. Lambert adjusts as he goes, and watches Aiden’s face change from irritation to surprise when he realizes how much less strain his body is under as they go. 

“Oh,” he says blankly, and Lambert grins, smug. “Oh, shit. I’m really bad with a sword, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah, you’re awful,” Lambert agrees cheerfully. “But we’ll fix that.” 

“Fuck,” Aiden sighs, and Lambert grabs him by the collar to drag him over to the area all the younger boys are learning in. The younger cohort are meant to learn in the Keep surrounded by other Witchers, out of the way of the small, fragile Bastion-bound children. Vesemir eyes them as they stop just a little distance from the actual class, but Lambert just grins at him. That gets him an even more suspicious glare, right up until Lambert starts working Aiden through sword forms again and Vesemir’s expression turns outright pained. He pairs the class off to work through drills, grabbing a passing Aubry to watch the boys and make sure none of them take an eye out, and weaves through them to Aiden and Lambert. 

“Who did this to you,” he says mercilessly, and Aiden nearly drops his sword. He’s been concentrating so hard he must have tuned things out. “I’ve seen Master Itakris fight, and Master Dasha, surely neither of them would have let you do so poorly. And Guxart is thoroughly competent.” 

“Um, an old Master, recently passed,” Aiden says sheepishly. He smiles, a little cheeky. “I notice you didn’t say any of those three were _good_.” 

Vesemir gives him a look and gently bats the back of his head. Aiden actually giggles. “Hush, Cat.” 

Lambert crosses his arms, leaning against the wall and grinning as Aiden rubs at the back of his head without real pain. “He’s not wrong, though.” 

Vesemir’s mouth twitches in what’s probably not meant to be a visible smile. “Regardless. Lambert, perhaps you’ll take the time to teach him? Within hearing and seeing range, so I can correct any truly egregious errors. Once he’s adequate, maybe have him join against the younger set, same with you- Roland is turning into a bit of a beast and needs more work I can give him on my own and Varin isn’t giving me an assistant this year.” 

“I hate kids,” Lambert says, just in time for one of the pre-Trial boys to run over and hug his legs, the group coming in from afternoon lessons. He bends down, scooping Aeldred up, and Aeldred wraps his arms around his neck to laugh. “Terrible, awful little beasts. Can’t stand them.” 

Aiden looks like he wants to start cooing, so Lambert kicks him. Vesemir very obviously swallows a smile. 

Aiden’s already pretty well acquainted with a decent number of the Wolves, so Lambert doesn’t bother trying to do the same thing Aiden had done for him as far as introductions go. Instead he works him through the slow, methodical process of relearning sword forms while holding Aeldred on his hip and letting the boy doze against him. He barks orders and adjusts Aiden's arms while Aeldred dozes, and once Aiden is wheezing and sweaty he finally agrees that Aiden's done enough for the day. Aiden cheerfully flips him off, making Aeldred giggle, and they all head for the baths, Aeldred holding Lambert's hand and swinging it as he told him very seriously about the tumbling exercises they were doing that week. 

It wasn’t a bad day. 

It really wasn’t. 

At least, until Varin catches him on his way back from the baths, Aiden gone ahead and Lambert the last one out of the cavern. They’re in the middling section of the keep, somewhere between main floor and subbasement, and the corridor he’s traveling through is deserted. 

At least, until Varin steps off of the staircase at the end of the hall and leans on the entry. 

Lambert stops, suspicious. “What?” 

“Not a word to me since you got back,” Varin says coolly. “But here you are fussing with the kids. I don’t need them picking up bad habits from you, so that stops with the young ones, now.” 

Lambert stares at him. “You can’t be serious.” 

“As a heart attack,” Varin says, all ice. He pushes off the wall and strides over, looking Lambert over with cold eyes. “I told Rennes it was foolish to keep you, when Vesemir dragged you in. But no, Vesemir insisted. I wanted you to just learn to be a servant, or send you back down the mountain, but _you_ insisted.” 

“Of course I did,” Lambert says, mouth gone nearly dry. The memories of that time want to surface, he can feel them thrashing inside the box he’s locked them in and buried deep, and he doesn’t want to touch them. They’re buried for a reason. “Can’t kill a Witcher if you aren’t one yourself. I’d never have a chance to gut him without training.” 

Varin snorts. “You always were such a little shit.” 

“I happen to think I’m adorable.” Lambert cocks his head, eyes widening. “Ohhh, is that it? You’re afraid more of them will turn out like me, seeing right through your shit to the rotted, festering core underneath and all those nasty little secrets you keep?” He leans in, dropping his voice. “What, does Vesemir still not know about all the poppy you have to take just to get through a night?”

Varin grabs him by the scruff and Lambert sees red, slapping his arm away hard and baring his teeth as he dodges away from a second grab. 

“Don’t you fucking touch me, you ham fisted bastard,” he snaps, and Varin raises a hand like he intends to back hand him. Lambert’s hand finds his dagger hilt at the small of his back, and for one wild moment he thinks he really is finally going to end up killing the man. 

Rennes’ voice booms down the hall as he steps off of the stairs. “Lambert, there you are. Varin, if you please?” 

Varin steps back, glaring at him, and stalks away at a slightly quicker pace than he needs to towards the basement. Lambert watches him go, rubbing at the back of his neck and hating everything for just enough of a moment that he misses Rennes coming level with him. He startles under his hand clapping down on his shoulder. 

“Lambert,” Rennes says with dangerous cheer. “I would like you to continue to not be in my office this year. We aren’t even a month in, yet.” 

“If he’ll fuck off and leave me alone, we’ll be fine,” Lambert snaps, ducking out from under his hand. “I’m not putting up with his bullshit, he doesn’t own me.” 

Rennes lets him go, but says sharply, "Lambert, don't antagonize him."

"This isn't on me," Lambert spits out, a rush of indignant fury welling up. "It's about the kids, he wants me to just abandon them because he saw me spending time Aeldred today. He's _six_ , he’s not going to understand. I don't fucking care if the rest of you are burned out on caring and can't give a shit if we live or die anymore, I'm not there yet, I’m not letting them just rot without someone to care for them for once in their miserable short lives. Who gives a fuck if I actually want them to have lives before he tosses them in a grave, it's not going to ruin them to be loved!" 

He's shouting by the end of it, and Rennes' face has gone unreadable. His voice bounces off the walls and into silence, his heavy breathing the only sound as his heart pounds as much as it can in his chest. 

Rennes takes a slow breath, and meets his eyes.

"Please spend the evening in your room or on the walls," he says at last, voice cool. "Our visitors don't need you making so much noise indoors. We start the treaty writing tomorrow, and everyone's going to need rest to tackle this. I don't want to see you until morning or so much as hear a word about you, do you understand?" 

It stings more than it should, and Lambert's lip curls. "Yeah. I understand." 

Rennes nods down the hall, his face still a mask, and as Lambert stomps off and starts up the stairs he hears him sigh. It's a low, defeated noise, and he balls his hands into fists. 

Fuck Rennes anyway.

He stands on the walls in the dark, and screams until he has no voice left for screaming.

When he returns to the bed he shares with Aiden and mechanically strips down under the watch of luminous yellow green eyes, all he can feel is that hand on the back of his neck, squeezing too hard, like the hands of the mages as they held them to shove the potions down his throat. Hieronymous, he thinks it was. Probably Hieronymous. 

He climbs into bed, and Aiden says nothing, just gives him a look. Lambert fumbles for his hand, finding it, and Aiden lets him pull the hand up to cradle the back of his neck. 

His hand is nothing like Varin’s, no misshapen lumpy fingers. Only elegant and long, with strength but no need to use it. His thumb smooths over the tender skin there, and Aiden settles in closer to him, the both of them sharing breath as Lambert closes his eyes. Aiden’s hands are safe, and what’s more, Aiden would kill Varin for getting too close. He’s safe. 

He’s safe. 

He sleeps without dreaming, and when he wakes, Aiden’s hand is still safe on his neck, shielding him from harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really tried to capture that frenetic "oh shit where are my classes" energy of first days. Next time we get to dig into the Treaty and more Cat Things.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: canon typical violence, usage of the words whore and slut in relation to Lambert during a fight (not with Aiden), references to suicidal ideation.

The first day of the treaty meetings starts fine, but by the time everyone piles in for lunch there’s an undeniable tension spinning through the room. Lambert takes his usual seat, Aiden going to join him, but Beauregard pops out of nowhere and grabs his collar. 

“With us today,” he says flatly, and glances at Lambert. “You too.” 

“Take your hands off of him and I’ll think about it,” Lambert says, fingers itching to break a wrist. Beauregard snorts and lets go of Aiden’s shirt. Aiden huffs, fussing with it until the collar is settled properly. Lambert waits until he looks down, and raises an eyebrow. He’s not moving an inch if Aiden doesn’t want him to go with.

Aiden nods, almost imperceptible, and Lambert follows him over to the table the Cats have been monopolized. Or at least, mostly monopolized. Gweld is there, talking enthusiastically with Cedric, and someone’s managed to coax Hemminks over as well, though he’s as taciturn as ever and saying sweet fuck all to his tablemates, who don’t seem to mind. Lambert sits next to Gweld, a little confused, but decides not to bother asking questions for now.

There’s the usual up and down as the Heads come in, and then everyone falls onto lunch. The Cats seem to treat individual plates as a suggestion, not a rule, and constantly steal from each others dishes. Lambert snarls when one of the Cats tries to steal his food, and Aiden quickly interjects with, “Cedric, the Wolves don’t eat communally, remember?” 

Cedric, who’s the palest white Lambert’s ever seen of human skin tones and has near white hair, makes a face but backs off. Axel, who’s a massive man with warm black skin, short cut hair, and a bit of a growing beard, grins at Lambert and deposits a piece of fish on Cedric’s plate for him to eat instead, the pair a study in handsome contrasts. Lambert settles back down, though he keeps an eye out for forks. 

The murmurs start once everyone’s settled and eating. 

“So, that bad?” Johannes is asking Itakris, who’s at the end of the table.

“Patience, Johannes, we knew it would be an uphill battle,” Itakris says calmly, but he looks tense. “We didn’t get off on a good foot as far as arguments went, but we have plenty of time this winter to argue out the pieces of the treaty to best suit everyone’s needs. We’ll make it work, it’ll be fine.” 

“So it’s bad,” Johannes says dryly, and there’s a small ripple of laughter around the table. Lambert fends off another wandering fork. 

With lunch done it’s off to training for some and meetings for others, and the day goes fast. Lambert arrives back to dinner and sits with the usual group, Aiden late as ever, but Geralt’s usually placid face is a stormcloud, his mouth set and shoulders tense.

“Who pissed in your soup?” Lambert asks, and gets a short look before Geralt moodily stabs his hunk of meat. 

“S’nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah, that’s one hell of a lie-”

“Heads up,” Gweld interjects and everyone groans a little as they get to their feet again. Lambert’s eyes narrow as he sees the looks on everyone's faces. It’s going to be a tense dinner for sure. 

“Stop glaring,” Eskel mutters, kicking his shin, and Lambert turns his glare onto the rest of the table as Rennes takes his seat at the high table and Dasha settles in next to him. The trainers are already there, and from the look on Vesemir’s face Varin must be angling for getting his ass kicked. Teagan just looks like the White Gull can’t reach him quick enough, and Darrin is looking at his wine glass with a sort of mild desperation. Their Cat counterparts look equally pissed off, Guxart’s face a mask of pure irritation.

“Fun afternoon, I guess,” Gweld says, and Geralt makes a vague noise, mouth tightening in a thin line as everyone sits down with the scrape of benches. “Didn’t they call you in to talk during the meeting with the Cats, Geralt?” 

“Mm.” Geralt’s glare narrows in on his potatoes as Aiden slides in next to Lambert, still damp from the baths. 

“What, it can’t have been that bad,” Eskel snorts. 

“Was,” Geralt says flatly, and grabs the carrots. “Don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“Fun indeed,” Gweld mutters, and passes the carrots down. Dinner goes fast, and Lambert considers staying for the drinking but he’s getting behind in his grading for the alchemy class, so he goes up to their room to grab his papers while Aiden stays with the others to relax. He considers where to go once he’s gathered them; Aiden is almost certainly going to come back early, since he gets drunk very fast, and he decides the greenhouse complex will do him nicely. 

The greenhouses sit along the southern wall, down a path and off to the side. There are three of them, two long interconnected buildings made of precious _crystallo_ glass that cost a fortune and are worth triple their weight in gold ending at a third shaped in an octagon. He takes a deep breath of damp, soothing air when he steps inside. Magelights hang from the rafters, flickering to soft life as he makes his way through the greenery. The first two greenhouses are mostly for herbs, their wooden tables covered in trays and pots with starts or full plants, but Lambert makes his way to the last and best, opening the door and feeling tension slip from him. 

The third greenhouse is a veritable oasis, full of rare plants and arranged in such a manner as to be like a formal garden at a fine manor house. It’s Barmin’s pride and joy. The center of the octagon has a massive flowering plant that blooms once every 50 years in an enormous planter surrounded by elegant draping fillers, and hanging from the rafters are sweet-smelling flowers he grows year round. There are risers with more flowers, even a few rare and glorious orchids, and scattered through the room are benches to sit and enjoy the plants. 

Lambert sits at one of these and starts marking things, soothed by the quiet, but his ears prick up when he hears someone else enter the main greenhouse. The footsteps are unfamiliar, so he loosens the knife at the small of his back, and waits. 

Grandmaster Dasha steps into the last greenhouse with a sigh of contentment, and pauses when he sees Lambert. Lambert quickly scrambles to his feet.

“Ah,” he says, and smiles. “I was not expecting there to be others here. Am I interrupting your work?” 

Lambert shakes his head, gesturing vaguely at his papers. “No, uh. Just grading. Kinda mindless, it’s fine. What’s a man such as yourself doing out here?”

Dasha chuckles. “Ahh, little wolf, I’m no man, but surely any can enjoy the beauty of a garden.” 

Lambert blinks, completely thrown. “Uh.” 

“No one told you?” Dasha glides over, sitting on the other end of the bench, and waves a hand for him to sit down.

Lambert sits. “I thought all Witchers were men,” he says after a beat. “Or have to be men. If you’re a Witcher, you _are_ a man?” Though now he thinks about it, that doesn’t quite seem… right. Somehow.

“It’s uncommon, but it happens once in a while,” Dasha says, in conversational tones, and looks up at one of the massive plants pressing its leaves to the roof. “A Witcher who has a body who was thought male, and turns out not to be. I’m in-between, wobbling back and forth between man and woman. Then again, my School does allow for women anyway, so it was never an issue. I thought I was all sorts of man for years until I realized that, perhaps, I wasn’t actually. Sometimes I’ll meet other Witchers like me from other Schools, or similar in ways. It’s nice to have company. My body may be like others who are men, but my soul? Not in the least, and who’s to say that the soul is not the body? I fit somewhere between man and woman, in my heart.” His eyes sharpen, and he considers Lambert for a moment before adding, “And that’s important. Generally speaking, if you find you don’t want to be something, or feel like you’re everything, or feel like you’re nothing, that’s something to think about.” 

“Oh,” Lambert says, for lack of anything better to say. He glances sidelong at Dasha and finds him looking back, and feels his cheeks go pink. 

Dasha just smiles. “The dresses throw you off.” 

“A little,” he mutters. 

Dasha chuckles, smoothing his skirts. Today is a dark blue trimmed in silver, which compliments his skin tone nicely. “I like to remind people that just because I’m Grandmaster and can destroy them with a thought, it doesn’t mean I’m a man.” 

“They’re pretty,” Lambert says before he can stop himself. “You have good taste.” 

Dasha smiles, soft and slow. “Thank you, Lambert.” He settles back against the bench and pulls a book from his pocket, settling down. The conversation is clearly done, and Lambert gets back to his grading, his head spinning a little. He finishes first and offers a quick, slight bow to Dasha, who nods back, and he makes his way quickly up to his and Aiden’s room. 

Aiden’s there, a little sloshed but mostly fine and dozing by the fire. 

“Hey,” he says, smiling languidly, and Lambert swallows hard. The fire has him painted in sharp relief, making his eyes glow soft and warm. 

“Hey,” Lambert echoes, putting his papers down, and dithers for a minute before sighing and stripping down for bed. 

“You’re in early tonight,” Aiden says, watching him. 

“Fuck off, I want to lay here and stare at the ceiling and think about some shit,” Lambert mutters, and Aiden stands up, stretching. He’s down to those soft cotton pants and shirt again. He doesn’t say anything, just climbs into the bed and burrows down, patting the spot next to him. 

Lambert joins him, and Aiden curls around him, dropping his head on his chest. He’s a reassuring weight, and Lambert would dearly like to know when this became okay, but. Does it matter? Aiden won’t rat him out, and he’s soft and warm and starting to purr. He absently runs his fingers through Aiden’s hair and gets a louder purr in response as he stares up at the canopy. 

_It’s nice to have company_ , Dasha had said. 

It’s hard to panic with a Cat purring on your chest, it turns out, and Lambert carefully places the tiny spark of _something_ that’s lit in his heart away in favor of closing his eyes and just feeling safe and comfortable.

oOo

The days fall into a routine, classes and eating and training, and aside from the fact that half the time he’s fixing Aiden’s terrible swordsmanship and Aiden’s forcing him to contort into ever more cruel shapes, it’s a fairly quiet time. Lambert likes his classes, more or less, and History of the Pontar is even getting more interesting now that they’ve picked up steam. And through all of it, the treaty meetings continue, and Lambert and Aiden keep getting dragged over to the Cat table seemingly at random.

And… Lambert is making. Friends?

It’s weird. 

He has no idea what to do with himself when he snaps at Johannes during training and Johannes just laughs and calls him spirited, or when Beauregard praises him for a well executed knife toss and then deliberately comes to find him so they can do their mending together, chatting with him like he’s a good conversation partner. Axel and Cedric deliberately seek him out, not Aiden, to go practice bomb tosses and whoop when he shows them new techniques, and all of them won’t stop grabbing his face to shove their cheeks together for scenting. Even prickly, sulky Gaetan does it.

It’s. Nice? 

But there are a few flies in the ointment, and the longer Lambert spends time with the Cats, the more apparent they become. 

The flies are the three Cat Adepts who came with the group. Kiyan, Treyse, and Kyprioth are their names, and they are thoroughly unnerving on the whole. They eat at the Cat table and talk among their brothers, but they keep their distance from the Wolves and from even Guxart and Itakris, and it’s a little unsettling. 

Kiyan is the youngest of the three Adepts, with thick dark hair and pale skin, and he’s largely neutral on the whole affair and uninterested in mingling. He’s quiet, introspective, and Lambert keeps a polite distance from him. Kyprioth is a very old Cat with an easy laugh and razor sharp teeth, charming but definitely dangerous, and Lambert keeps even more of a distance from him. He’s golden toned in skin with raven dark hair, and dresses in the most ostentatious way of any of the Cats, flaunting his wealth, and Lambert doesn’t doubt for a second he’s an excellent assassin. And then there’s Treyse. 

Treyse is the picture of a solid Cat witcher, and Lambert hates him almost on sight. He’s a strawberry blond, wearing his hair up in a bun most of the time, and he has one hell of a scar over one eye running all the way down to his chin. It doesn’t make his face, fixed into a near permanent sneer, any more appealing. He’s competent as a fighter, dresses well, and clearly loathes every last one of the Wolves. 

This isn’t hard to figure out. Aiden deliberately keeps him away from Treyse, and even if he didn’t, the look on Treyse’ face every time he spots one of the Wolves training with them would keep Lambert away. Lambert almost wants to do something about it, but the way the other Cats keep their distance from him tells him all he needs to know. Treyse is a threat, but a respected one, and he needs to be cautious. And sure, yeah, maybe he has a history of not doing that and needling until he upsets the status quo, but Treyse is an unknown variable. He’s not willing to upset the apple cart just yet; he can wait. 

Lambert is very, very good at lying in wait. 

But it turns out that sometimes the universe just gives you a free shot, whether one wants it or not, because Treyse takes the choice away from him by sheer accident. 

Lambert has been _good_ , alright? He’s behaved. He’s not really had any reason not too, with Varin keeping his distance and Aiden to distract him from shit memories and other people’s dick moves. But it’s just after he lets out of training with the Cats and is heading out with Aiden that Treyse bumps past him in the knot of people, hard and deliberate, and Lambert is genuinely shocked at such a childish move. 

“Fucking rude,” he mutters, and of course, because he has no gods damned luck, Treyse immediately rounds on him whip fast and grabs his shirt. 

“What did you just say?” he demands, lips pulled back to show those sharp fangs off, and Lambert has never once taken well to posturing. Lambert immediately pulls himself out of Treyse’s grip, snarling and showing off his much larger fangs. Aiden goes tense, eyes flicking between the pair

“The fuck was that for, I was just walking-” he starts, but there’s a shout from down the hall and they all collectively jolt, turning to see Teagan glaring at all of them. 

“Lambert! With me, now,” he orders, and glowers at the rest of them. “And you lot, stop blocking the hall, this isn’t the fucking training grounds, get moving.” 

Lambert hesitates and Teagan’s eyes flash murderous gold. 

“Lambert, I am _not asking_ ,” he snarls, and Lambert shoots a glare at Treyse before stalking over to Teagan, who leads him away as the Cats scatter, Gaetan grabbing Aiden’s arm to pull him away. Teagan leads him up, and up, and Lambert knows very quickly where this is going. 

“It was his fault,” he protests as they climb up the stairs to Rennes office. 

“I don’t care, Lambert. Why can’t you just leave things be, you are such a _headache_ when you get it in your head to right all the wrongs in the world,” Teagan snaps. “All of us are wronged every gods damned minute of the day, grow up. Rennes can deal with this, you were overdue a conversation anyway.” 

Lambert groans, but he knows better than to try and run. Teagan’s friends with the Griffin grandmaster and has more nasty Signs up his sleeves than any of the other Wolves, and he’s second only to Eskel in sheer power. He wouldn’t get further than two steps before Teagan froze him, and regardless of Teagan’s wrecked leg, he’s still plenty strong enough to drag Lambert wherever he wants. The small mercies of the world do not extend to Lambert’s desires to go back and finish what was shaping up to be a fight with Treyse.

They reach the landing with the double doors into Rennes office, and Teagan jabs a finger at one of the benches outside as if Lambert is 9 again. He sits down on one hard, seething at the stupidity of it all and crossing his arms. Teagan rolls his eyes and drags the office door open before nearly slamming it shut. 

Grow up, fuck that noise. Just because everyone else has gone and decided to be delicate somber martyrs to human bigotry doesn’t mean he’s going to be patient about it. Gods all forbid that he actually demand to be treated with any kind of decency or stand up for himself. Here, now that he’s finally of age, he shouldn’t have to put up with this shit. He survived training, survived the Trials, survived so many dead friends and so much associated bullshit, survived his father and all the associated shit with that, and he fucking well deserves better. Just because it’s the “way things are” doesn’t mean that’s how it should be. 

So what if he’s an idealist? He can be an idealist and pragmatic. 

He’s halfway through planning out his revenge on Treyse, which has mostly involved finding a way to shrink his clothes three sizes, when Teagan steps out of the office again. Teagan gives him an exasperated look, shaking his head, and points him in. Lambert scowls and stomps into the room, stopping in front of Rennes’ desk. 

The Grandmaster’s office is one of the nicest rooms in the keep. It’s spacious, up at the very top of the towers to give absolutely incredible views of the mountain valley beyond, with glass windows for most of it and a balcony with Toussainti doors with glass panes in them. Bookshelves line the walls with tapestries and paintings filling in the spaces between them, rich rugs cover the floor, comfortable chairs and chaise lounges are scattered throughout, and the desk itself is a massive mahogany beast carved with various scenes of Witchers mid-battle that Rennes had made himself years ago. Rennes hobby is woodworking, and he’s responsible for a vast portion of the detail work added to the various wooden elements of Kaer Morhen. Lambert knows he sells some of his carvings anonymously in larger cities; at least three different royal courts have one of his dragon statues. 

Rennes himself is at his desk, and looks up as Lambert comes to a halt.

Rennes has the kind of eyes meant for being a mean son of a bitch. He’s perfected the thousand yard stare, and the Trainer Look, and the I’m-in-charge command face, and Lambert kind of hates him for it. 

“Would you care to explain what, exactly, you’re doing in my office?” Rennes says, tossing down his pen. Lambert clasps his hands behind his back and stares into the middle distance just beyond Rennes’ shoulder. 

“No clue, sir.” 

Rennes snorts. “Don’t fucking call me sir, you little shit. All these years getting dragged in here and you still think that’s the way to play this?” 

Lambert shrugs. “No, sir, but it pisses you off and that gives me something to grin about at night.” 

Rennes sighs, rubbing his temples. “Fuck’s sake, boy… Why is it every time I look up you’re here just begging to get your ass kicked? Do you get off on it? Is that why you’re always antagonizing people?” 

Lambert can’t help his nose wrinkling. “Ew, no.” 

Rennes mouth twitches in what’s definitely a tamped down smile. “Terror.” He leans back in his chair, bracing his chin in his hand as he considers Lambert. When he’s not actively pissed off Lambert almost manages to like him. Only almost, though. This is the man who’s let Varin remain a trainer, even after everything, and for that Lambert will never really like him. “I need you to not fuck this thing with the Cats up.” 

“I’m not!” Lambert snaps, offended. “They like me! Even fucking Guxart, and he’s a piece of shit that I don’t even want to have liking me. What the fuck am I supposed to have done, anyway? I’ve made-” His voice sticks on the words but he barrels on. “I’ve made friends with most of them. Treyse, Kiyan, and Kyprioth are just assholes, they were never going to like me anyway, but I haven’t fucking done anything wrong!” 

Rennes gives him a long look, and then gestures at the chair. “Sit down, Lambert.” 

Lambert does, glowering at him still, and Rennes just watches him for a moment. 

Finally, he says, in a very abrupt change of topic, “Gweld is going with the Cats when they leave, on a trial basis. An ambassador, of sorts. Cat Johannes will remain with us in exchange. I would have suggested you for an ambassador once this treaty and mess is done, but you’re still a bit too young, I think. Maybe in a decade. Do you know what the treaty’s about?” 

Lambert shrugs. “Something about the mutagen formula?” 

“Correct.” Rennes reaches over and opens the glass bottle of whiskey he keeps on his desk, and pours a few fingers into a glass. “This doesn’t leave this room, because they’re not ready to announce it, but the Cat’s formula has been causing severe madness and mutagen overload, killing all of their Grasses survivors within a few years. They want to look at our mutagens, but they’re not stupid. They know the value of that. The treaty is being hammered out carefully, but the fact remains that it’s still on fragile ground right now. Kiyan, Treyse, and Kyprioth represent the faction of the Cats that aren’t sold on the treaty. So I need you to be careful not to piss them off, because pissed off people at council meetings and treaty writing days make my job a massive fucking headache.” 

Lambert watches him sip the whiskey, and absolutely doesn’t think about Aiden’s drawn face after he’s been bled. “What do you get in return?” 

“Hmm?” Rennes looks back to him. 

“The treaty,” Lambert says, tapping his fingers on his leg. “You get something in return. You’d have to. You’d never sign some shit like that without something good in return. Power? Money? What is it?” 

Rennes’ smile is all sorts of ugly. “Power, little pup, comes in all shapes and sizes. Money just the same. What we get is information. When the schools splintered from the first Witcher order, knowledge was lost that we can rebuild, in time. With access to the Cat school’s information, we may see massive leaps forward in understanding the world. The Cats have access in return to the Viper libraries, which contain massive amounts of information about the Conjunction of the Spheres, and that is the sort of thing I’m very curious about. There are some other things as well, things like joint practices, trade routes, hunting areas, but that’s the bulk of it for now.” 

Lambert nods. “Okay,” he says. “So…” 

“So, little pup,” Rennes says, setting his empty glass down with a thump, “don’t fucking antagonize our guests, don’t get attached, and don’t do anything to put this in jeopardy. I know you’re sleeping with the young one- Aiden, isn’t it? But be careful with that. A breakup could spell trouble.” 

This… is a bit confusing. Lambert blinks. “I’m not dating Aiden.” 

Rennes pauses, looking at him. “You reek like him.” 

“Yeah, he’s my friend,” Lambert says, eyeing him. “We sleep in the same bed, share most of the same classes, run around together. Doesn’t mean we’re dating.” 

Rennes stares a little, then blinks. There’s a bit of a smile quivering around his mouth. “I see. Also, it’s extremely cute that you call it dating, and not fucking. Never change, pup.” He taps his fingers on the table and says, “You’re of age and you’ve seen a bit of the world, but perhaps it would be good for you to get a sense of how the other parts of the world work. Tomorrow I’d like you to sit in and observe one of the treaty meetings. Tomorrow is a full quorum meeting, we’ll begin at 1 in the afternoon, sharp. Understand?” 

Lambert bites back a groan of frustration. “Yes, Rennes.” 

“Good. Now get out of my office, and stop letting people catch you being rude to them.” 

“Bye, sir,” Lambert trills with a flippy little salute, and bolts for the door. 

“Do not jump down the railings!” Rennes yells after him, just as Lambert vaults the railings to freefall two floors and catch himself on a jutting stone. “Lambert!” 

“I’m fine!” he yells back, and swings himself onto the stairs. He can hear Rennes sigh clear from here, and grins as he jogs down the stairs two at a time.

oOo

The meeting room that’s being used for the treaty meetings is just off of the Great Hall, set up with a massive horseshoe shaped table and a ridiculous number of chairs cluttered around it. It’s usually the Committee room. Lambert joins the small crowd of people flocking in, getting a few looks as he does, and finds a seat next to Vesemir on the side that clearly belongs to the Kaer Morhen Committee. The usual Committee members are the ones handling the treaty, the 10 Wolf witchers who run Kaer Morhen and the school as a whole, and they’re slowly funnelling in. Light comes from braziers to keep the room warm, and from the single uncovered window with its glass pane. About a third of the Kaer Morhen windows are glass, the other two thirds covered over with boards in the winter and spring to keep the heat in.

Varin stops in the doorway, scowling. Lambert gives him a finger wave and smiles, beatific, and Varin takes a seat at the end of the table to avoid him, filling his position as head trainer. Teagan eyes him and says nothing, taking the seat to the right hand of Rennes’ chair that is his right as Steward. Heironymous and Darrin sail in and both look at him askance, saying nothing, and take their seats as the Wolf School mages. Barmin and Ulfric, heads of meditation and alchemy respectively, give him smiles as they find their seats, Ulfric sitting right next to him.

Gethin squints at him as he comes in the door, then grunts in recognition. The forgemaster has only met him a few times, after all. “Ahhh, yes. Vesemir’s surprise child, the yelling one. Well, at least you’ve more of a brain than he did at your age. Not that that’s hard.” 

“Gethin,” Mattias, head of the library, chides as Lambert turns with undisguised glee to look at Vesemir, who’s clearly debating about trying to become one with his chair. “He was very young then, he was near 45 when we brought him back here to teach! You know how it is with young pups.” 

Gethin snorts, sitting down heavily in his chair. “He’s also the reason we teach neutrality from the time they’re Grassed.” 

Lambert grins wider. “Something you wanna say, Papa Vesemir?” He drawls.

Vesemir reaches over to lightly thump him on the head. It’s worth it for how red his face is. Vesemir’s one of the oldest wolves, but he’s not _the_ oldest. Clearly Lambert needs to start begging for stories, if the way ancient Barmin is chuckling has anything to do with it. 

The Cats have been filing in as well. Treyse, Kiyan, and Kyproith all sit to the end, Guxart of all people taking the direct seat next to the seat where Dasha will sit as grandmaster with Itakris beside him, mirroring Vesemir. Oleander and Primrose mirror the Wolf mages as well, and Johannes grins at Lambert from where he takes a seat by Guxart, mirroring him. Finally Dasha and Rennes come in, already in conversation, and take their seats at the heads of the table. Lambert pulls out his notebook, quill, and ink, opening to a fresh page and getting a few odd looks, but he ignores them. Teagan looks approving, and Vesemir looks downright smug, so it doesn’t really matter. Others are getting out notebooks too, but Mattias just closes his eyes. His memory is well known. 

“Before we start,” Treyse drawls, “what’s the brat doing here?” 

Lambert considers throwing something at him, but Rennes simply says, “Lambert is here on my invitation. As our recent discussions have shown, our young ones are the future, and I don’t have any doubt that Lambert is going to play a large role in Kaer Morhen moving forward. He will also be quiet through the meeting, as he’s here as an observer only.” 

Lambert stares, thrown and a little nettled. A few of the Wolves look at Rennes askance, but he offers no further comment on the matter and simply pulls out some sheets of parchment.

“Well,” Dasha says, flipping open his own notebook to a fresh page. “Let’s begin then. I believe the mages wanted to start?” 

Oleander nods, clearing her throat. “We’ve discussed at length what’s to be done,” she says in a really very pleasant, throaty voice, “and it looks like we have to accept the original option.” 

There’s a collective disquiet that settles over the group. 

“You’re certain?” Rennes asks. “Heironymous? Darrin?” 

Heironymous folds his hands into the long sleeves of his robes. “It is the best option,” he says simply. “Not an ideal one, but the best for good results. The binding ritual will give us an edge, and if we find a compatible pair, we’ll be even more likely to succeed. We have until midwinter. The longest night is a good time for ceremonies, the fluctuations of natural Chaos are stronger.” 

“Lovely,” Guxart sighs, rubbing his forehead. “The criteria?” 

“On the Path 10 years or less,” soft-spoken Primrose says, his voice low and melodic. “Younger is better, but we’ll need to be certain they’re competent. Compatibility is important as well. Good health. Stable mutagens, of course.” 

Vesemir sighs, and Lambert glances at him. He’s not quite sure what’s going on, but given how haggard Vesemir suddenly looks, he has a sinking suspicion that it’s not going to be good. 

“Well,” Dasha says, “a problem for the future. We can discuss options at a later date, but for now, if we can return to our discussion from yesterday?” 

There’s a groan from everyone in the room, and a number of people change pages back to prior notes. 

“Alright, I’m solid on keeping Kaedwen as Wolf territory with a cut to the tithe for the Cats,” Rennes starts, drumming his fingers on the table. “Makes the most sense if we’re going to be seeing increased travel from the Cat school up our way. Kovir and Poviss I’m open to discussing, same with Aedirn. I want a lower tithe for Redania at bare minimum, though, we’re seeing more movement down that way and there’s all that shit with the new cities popping up along the Pontar- we’re going to be neck deep in drowners within two years if we don’t start setting regular patrols through there.”

“Most of your lot travel through the Bear routes,” Kyprioth interjects in his satin voice. “I hardly see why Redanian tithe should be lowered just for those Wolves who use the wayhouses, they prefer the Bear.” 

Vesemir chimed in with, “They prefer the Bear wayhouses because the Bears stock heavier meat supplies. Add more meat to the Redanian houses, the Wolves will go. The Cat houses are nicer for recovery, but if you’re starving, the Bears own your ass.” 

There’s a small murmur of agreement, and Dasha makes a note in his book. Kyprioth looks interested, Kiyan decidedly neutral. 

The tithe system is old, Lambert knows. It’s a complicated, interconnected thing, with the different Schools manning waystations and wayhouses hidden away throughout the Continent, and each School paid the others for usage through the year for those in different countries. The Vipers paid barely anything for Kovir and Poviss, the Wolves barely anything for Nilfgaard in return, but with Stygga’s reach and Kaer Morhen’s long arms, never mind Kaer Seren’s eternally tangled-in-solemn-knightly-duties travel, the tangle that became the central countries of the Continent could get messy with costs. For the first three years of his wandering along the Path, he’s not expected to contribute anything, but come his fourth year, he’ll be expected to add his own tithe to Kaer Morhen, paying for upkeep, food, and the continued survival of his brotherhood through the Continent. Only a tenth of his money is intended for the Keep, all of it piling together and then paid out to the other Schools, in pocket money for bribes, in fresh gear, and new horses. Sometimes, when the year is extremely good, they even get an actual return. Some of it is invested throughout the Continent in different industries, the choice of which is extensively argued for weeks as a group towards the end of winter. 

Lambert has been quietly investing himself, and while he has no expectations of seeing a reward any time soon, listening to Teagan rant about interest rates on lumber and stone while hiding in one of his filing cupboards to avoid a lecture had been educational. 

The waystation tithe being lower in Temeria and Redania will be a massive boon, because while the Wolves do maintain a few waystations, Temeria and Redania are mostly Bear, Griffin, and Cat territory right now. Some of the Wolves do wander far lower- Lambert’s own jaunt down for a spot of patricide proving this very easily- but for the most part the Continent divides into stripes with Wolves at the top, Bears above and below the Pontar, Griffins in the long strip of small countries from Toussaint to the sea with a massive spread on either direction, as they work primarily with the nobility, Cats from the Arete to the Yaruga, and the Vipers from the Yaruga to below, and the Manticores out in Zerrikania and Haakland. Their mingling is far and few between. 

Lambert is _fascinated_. And bored. It’s an interesting mix. 

He spends most of his time listening and taking notes because, despite Varin’s bitchiness, he does in fact know how to shut up and listen, and his notes slowly reveal a pattern of behaviors as he glances at them. 

Dasha keeps quiet for the most part, only interjecting when he has something firm and grounded to say with a clear, clean defense. Rennes talks constantly, jumping in and out of the flow of conversation. Vesemir hangs back and listens along with Mattias, Varin, and Barmin, but the rest of the Wolves talk at large and with each other. Guxart and Itakris break the “trainers keep quiet” mold and jump directly in, with Johannes adding his two cents as a Witcher out on the path, and Kiyan stays dead silent the entire time while Treyse argues every tiny point and Kyprioth comments here and there. The mages seem to be zoning out entirely. 

Finally, after literal hours, Rennes holds up his hands and things quiet down. 

“Alright,” he sighs, “I think that’s the sum up for today. It’s progress. Teagan, where are we at?” 

Teagan glances at his notes. “On the Cat’s end: 5% decrease in Kaedweni, Poviss, Kovir, and Aedirn tithe. On the Wolves end: 7% decrease on Redania, Aedirn, Temeria, and Sodden tithe, increase by 2% on Lyria and Rivia. Mettina, Ebbing, Brugge, Kerack, Cintra, Cidaris, Nilfgaard, Toussaint, and Skellige remain up in the air, with a note that some of these will remain the same.” 

Treyse snorts, crossing his arms and glaring at Dasha, who simply fixes him with a steely gaze of pure disdain. Treyse looks away, and Dasha says mildly, “Progress is slow, but this will improve things, if only in our ability to cooperate with our fellow Schools. This could be the building blocks of better treaties with the Vipers, Bears, and Manticores for all of us. I have no desire to see the Schools back under one banner, but this is a good start towards better communication.” 

Mattias hums, pleased, eyes finally cracking open. “Here here, Grandmaster. Well. Dinner?” 

Lambert is suddenly desperately hungry, and when he glances at the window is shocked to see that it’s already dark. Winter is upon them, sure, but it’s definitely time to eat. 

Everyone files out, bit by bit, and Vesemir walks with him to the Great Hall. 

“So,” he says, eyes fixed ahead. “What did you think of your first formal meeting?” 

“A whole fucking headache,” Lambert says promptly, and Vesemir snorts, mouth twitching into a smile. “But I didn’t hate it. Wouldn’t want to do it all the time.” 

“Most of the time committee meetings happen once a month,” Vesemir says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Over the winter it’s twice a month, ramps up in the fall when we start seeing people come back so’s we can make sure everything’s ready for double occupancy. Not so much of a headache then, usually small things like checking in on how people are coming along, what news of the outside world, calls from the Kaedweni king to send someone out to go kill something that’s bugging him. It’s not like this much. Until it comes the end of the fiscal year, dear fucking gods, that’s a headache.” 

Lambert hums, and slowly comes to a stop. Vesemir stops too, turning to look at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Why me,” he asks after a moment, and Vesemir considers him, the hallway emptying until it’s just them left. “Rennes didn’t have to do this. Why?”

“Does the walker choose the Path, or the Path the walker,” Vesemir says at last. “That’s what Barmin told me. I was a trainer for two years while the outside world cooled down- and yes, I’ll tell you someday, not today- but when I went back out for a year I hated it. I came back, and I stayed. I left once every ten years to clear my head, but I stayed. My Path was never meant to be out in the world- I was chaos incarnate out there. Never stopped caring too much. If I had to guess? Rennes is looking to see if there’s a different Path that would suit you better.” 

Lambert swallows hard, feeling his blood run cold. “He can’t fucking make me stay here,” he says, his voice tight, and Vesemir shakes his head. 

“No,” Vesemir agrees. “He can’t. We…” He stops, licking his lips, and looks out of the small window set into the wall, one of the rare glass ones that stayed uncovered during the winter for extra light. 

Lambert watches him, off kilter, and finally Vesemir looks back at him. 

“Every step you make is a choice with a consequence,” Vesemir says, his voice soft and drawn. “Everything has a cost. A stone you kick aside could crush a flower, a butterfly flapping its wings stirs the air enough to build a storm. Listen to me, Lambert, carefully. You _always_ have a choice. Bad or good, you choose, every step on whatever Path your feet find. You know this, I know you do, but remember it. Internal, external, it all matters. What you want is important, and I know that’s hypocritical shit coming from me, but that wanting? It’s the only thing that’ll keep you alive.” 

Lambert sees the tremor in his hands, and Vesemir abruptly turns, walking away down the hall and leaving him alone by the glass window, the snow covered mountains an unknowable landscape beyond. 

Lambert’s quiet through dinner, stewing over his thoughts, and his dinner partners thankfully leave him be, aside from Geralt aggressively tipping some extra carrots on his plate. He eats them, because he’s not one to give up food, and goes to grab some more of the flavored vodka before he goes up to his room. 

Berengar does that too, he knows. Berengar doesn’t give two shits about anything, he arrives at Kaer Morhen and stays more or less locked in his room for the next four months and drinks like a fish. He’s antisocial as they come, even if he is a damn good Witcher. 

Fuck, he’s more social than Berengar. That’s. Depressing. 

Lambert kicks the door shut and strips down to his braies before deciding to grab out a pair of the soft cotton pants to relax in. He drops down in his chair by the fire and gets a good portion of the way through the bottle before Aiden pokes his head in. 

“Hey,” Aiden says. “How’d the meeting go?” 

Lambert rubs his forehead as Aiden shuts and locks the door. “Fine, I guess.” He reaches over to grab his notebook and flips it open. “Rennes, Dasha, Itakris, Vesemir, Heironymous, Barmin, Gethin, Oleander, and Primrose are for the treaty. Varin and Treyse are firmly against. Everyone else, and that’s seven of them, are neutral and could swing either way. Mages are up to some shit to do with the mutagens that they need “candidates” for, which is less than fucking thrilling, and I learned a lot about tithe payments and waystations today.” 

Aiden sits down in the chair next to his and hooks his foot around Lambert’s ankle. “Okay, but you’ve got upset-face on, and that doesn’t sound upsetting enough to get that face out.” 

Lambert looks into the fire, swigging from the bottle again, and says, slowly, “Vesemir said some shit today.” He hears Aiden make a small noise of encouragement, and sighs. “Fuckin’... He was the one who took me here. I’m his Surprise Child, with all the bullshit about destiny and whatever, but… Sometimes a choice isn’t a choice at all. Is it? Because you know it’s the wrong choice, and you have to make it anyway, because otherwise the consequences are too much. But you still had to choose to do it. Fucking… coercion. Coerced choice is no choice at all. Sometimes you have to do shit you don’t want to do because you have to, because the other choice is death. And that’s no choice at all.” 

Aiden’s hand finds his, and Lambert starts, looking at it and then up at Aiden as their palms meet. Aiden’s face is somber, no pity there at all, and Lambert squeezes his hand as he looks back at the fire. 

“I chose this life,” he says at last. “I did, in the end. I could have… I don’t know. The Temple is always an option for the Wolves. They could have kept me as a servant, sent me down to the valley when I was of age to get work, I had the option. Vesemir didn’t really want this for me. But I made the choice to keep training. But it wasn’t any choice at all. The Path isn’t a choice, it’s what I am, now, even if I wander where I like. Could still choose to die.” 

Aiden’s hand tightens on his. “Would really prefer you didn’t,” he says, voice a little tight, and Lambert squeezes back again. 

“Won’t. I’m too petty to let people get away with shit like that,” he says, and he doesn’t miss the hitch in Aiden’s heartbeat. He glances back at Aiden, who meets his eyes. “You gonna miss me when I’m gone?” 

“I miss you when you’re two floors down from me,” Aiden says, painfully honest, and Lambert’s heart stutters.

“How the fuck are we going to get by when we split up again,” Lambert asks, and it’s only half joking this time. “Who’s going to keep me laughing, huh?” 

Aiden licks his lips, and meets his eyes. “We just won’t.” 

Lambert pauses with the bottle halfway to his mouth. “Won’t?” 

Aiden shrugs, and his eyes blaze. “No rule against it, not really. Nothing says we can’t travel together, work together. Stay together. We could- we could split winters. One with Stygga, one with Kaer Morhen. They wouldn’t care. Dasha likes you, he wouldn’t complain, and no one here minds me. And if we- If we went to Redania, and Temeria, we’d be right in the middle of the two. We could decide in the fall which one to go to. And we could take bigger contracts, and it’s always easier to get stitched up if there’s two people.” 

Lambert can barely breathe. Aiden looks fierce in the firelight, glowing with determination, and. Fuck. Is it so easy? 

“Okay,” he breathes, and Aiden’s smile is brilliant. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

Fuck. Lambert wants to drag him over and kiss him and-

Oh. Wait. 

What? 

_What_?

Lambert quickly turns and takes a very large drink of the vodka and does his best not to choke on it, because there’s a strange, bizarre coiling happening in his gut. Now? After all this time? Not a single person across the Continent as he’d traveled had inspired him to lust and _now_ he was into someone it was the person he was regularly sharing a bed with? Was he really that weak for the smallest amount of care? Fuck’s sake. 

“So,” he says, desperately hoping his voice doesn’t break. “What’s Treyse’s issue with Dasha, anyway?” 

If Aiden thinks this is a weird subject change, he’s kind enough not to mention it. 

“Oh, uh… well,” Aiden says, “the old Grandmaster died about ten years back and Treyse and Dasha were both in line for it. Dasha won, and Treyse challenged him, but Dasha beat him and let him live. And he’s been mad about it ever since. There’s a lot of Cats who thought that Treyse should be Grandmaster, and there was a sort of… I don’t really know all the details, I was little, but there was a resentment against the Wolves for a while? And there was a lot of suspicion that Treyse was involved with the politics of Radowit of Kaedwen, but Dasha’s kept him tied down for a while now and things have cooled down.” 

He hesitates, and then adds, very quietly, “I know Dasha went by himself to the King about the rumors, and I don’t know what happened, but the king has a new mage advisor and druids are banned from the court. People thought he was going to kill Treyse, but he never did. I guess he must want to keep the peace in the Cats.” 

Lambert hums. “Suspicious.” 

“I agree.” 

Aiden shifts the focus to lighter things, telling him funny stories about the nonsense the other Cats got up to at training, and by the time Lambert allows himself to be folded into bed his heart has eased a little. His conversation with Vesemir is bothering him, a bit, but he closes his eyes and fights for sleep anyway. 

The next day is utterly normal. Classes, food, training, all normal, until Itakris grabs his arm and asks him, very politely, if he’d run up to the classroom since Itakris had forgotten a book up there and bring it to him. Lambert doesn’t really want to, but Rennes is nearby and watching, so he sighs and nods, jogging up the stairs with every intention of going back for some drinking even if Aiden has already turned in to make it an early night. 

The book is easily found ( _48 Uses For The Common Dung Beetle_ , none of which Lambert wants to know that badly, yikes) and he starts jogging back down the endless flights of stairs. He’s thinking of experiments, of practice, and that’s the only excuse he has for nearly missing the sound of an arm swinging at him as he turns a corner. 

Lambert barely ducks, baring his teeth as his body rushes into overdrive and he drops the book. Remus is there, his eyes flashing in the dark, and he’s on Lambert in seconds. 

Remus slams him against the wall, and Lambert snarls, going for his knives. Remus pins his arm and then shoves his forearm up against Lambert’s throat to press down hard. His breath stinks of White Gull, and Lambert thrashes, kicking up hard and using some of that hard won new flexibility to get a leg up and kick him hard in the stomach. That barely gets him back, but it’s enough to get the arm off of his throat.

“Fucking whore,” Remus snarls, and Lambert narrowly dodges the hand Remus aims for his hair. “Loud mouthed piece of shit, everyone wanted you dead and Cullen to live and you couldn’t even have the decency to get your throat ripped out. No, you came crawling back and what did you do but put yourself in bed with a _fucking_ Cat, you traitor. What’ve you been telling them, huh? Spilling all our secrets just because their Head’s got a pretty face?”

“Get your nose checked, you fucking shithead, the only seed you should be smelling is your own when I split your balls open for this,” Lambert snaps, and spits in his face.

That earns him a solid punch to the side of the head that has him seeing stars, and he’s about to throw himself forward at Remus when both of them suddenly find themselves unable to move, the ozone crackle of magic hanging in the air. A sort of blue light has covered them, and Lambert manages to move his eyes enough to see Darrin walking up. 

“I think,” he says mildly, robes swishing against the floor, “that’s quite enough of that. Lambert, you’re free to leave, I heard enough. I’ll take Remus back to his room so he can sleep off his idiocy.” 

Remus starts to struggle, but Darrin just rolls his eyes. Lambert grabs the book and flees before he can attract Darrin’s irritation on himself, tossing it to Itakris once he reaches the Great Hall and then bolting up to the bedroom.

“We,” Lambert says, practically vibrating with rage as he bursts into the bedroom to find Aiden casually sharpening his brace of knives by the fire, “are going on a revenge quest.” 

Aiden blinks, then looks at his knives. “Sure, I’ve got time. Can we do it in like half an hour? I’ve almost got these all sharpened, and killing things with dull knives is only good in metaphors.” 

“What?” Lambert asks, a bit derailed.

Aiden looks back at him, eyes wide and innocent as the day is long. Considering it’s winter, that’s not very innocent. “What? Aren’t we killing someone?” 

“No, you nightmare, we’re going to dye his horse and all of his armor green.” 

Aiden’s jaw drops, and his eyes light up. “You,” he says fervently, “are my favorite person in the entire world. How are we dying a horse and armor green? What gear do I need? Are we doing fun alchemy? Just us, or do we have friends coming? Can we also make it stink really bad? What are we actually getting revenge for? That shirt looks really nice on you, by the way, I forgot to tell you earlier.”

Lambert preens a little. “Doesn’t it? Eskel made it for me, he’s really good at tailoring. And carefully, some gloves, yes, just us, we absolutely can, and because Remus is a fucking asshole who told me my yearmate dying was a waste and it should have been me.” 

Aiden goes very still. “Are you sure we can’t just kill him?” 

“Not here, at least,” Lambert says brightly. “Ask me if we ever meet on the Path and I’ll think about it. For now we’re dying his shit.” 

“You know, if we stuck certain foods into his meal, we could actually color his shit.” 

“I love the way you think.” 

Aiden smiles prettily, batting his eyelashes. “Just the way I think?” 

“Well I definitely don’t love you for your table manners, you trash fire, you’re worse than I am.” Lambert stalks over to his chest and throws it open, suddenly desperate to get his clothes off and into something else, anything else. The run in with Remus has left him feeling disgusting. He fishes out a new shirt and breeches, and after a moment he says, “Does everyone really think we’re fucking?” 

Aiden chokes on his wine. “ _What_? How the fuck did that come up?” 

Lambert pulls on his shirt. “I might have gotten in a fight with Remus. The same one as just now, I mean. He called me your whore.” 

Aiden’s eyes blaze, and he shoots to his feet. “Fuck dying his shit green, I’m going to take his damn intestines out and hang him with them.” 

Lambert thinks absently that attraction is a really weird thing, because that makes a happy little fluttery thing chest start up. With a sort of resolute absent mindedness, he aggressively squishes it in favor of grabbing Aiden’s arm before he can storm out of the room. “Much as I really fucking wish we could, and believe me, if I thought we could get away with it I’d help you, Rennes already chewed me out about putting the treaty in danger.” 

That stops Aiden cold. Lambert’s honestly a little surprised, but Aiden’s eyes narrow as he clearly mentally weighs how he feels about everything, sorts it out, and sighs, heavily. 

“I would like to state for the record that I don’t like that we’re not just killing him,” Aiden says, “but fine. Let’s go turn everything he owns green.” 

They get all the way down to the alchemy lab before Aiden says, “Wait, why green?” 

“For envy,” Lambert says, yanking open drawers and pulling out several vials. He glances at Aiden, and smirks. “Not my fault I scored a handsome Cat to share my bed without even trying while he can’t stop panting after Rennes tail. Everyone knows he’s been pining for that fucker since he was a kid, he’s never grown out of it and it’s fucking embarassing.” 

Aiden’s mouth drops into a small, adorable O of surprise, and Lambert cheerfully slams the drawer shut and waltzes from the room with Aiden trotting after him. 

“Lambert? Lambert. Lambert! You think I’m handsome? I’m? Me? Am I handsome? I mean. I know that, I’m fine in the face, this is- um, can we talk about this? Do you think I’m handsome? Wait that came out wrong. Lambert!” 

As they’re slathering the paint all over a very patient stallion named Darkside (because Remus is a pretentious fuck who really doesn’t deserve such a good natured horse) who seems plenty happy to have green added to his fluffy winter coat Aiden says, “Wait, so, do you want to be fucking? Because you have not historically seemed very pro fucking and I would like to know, because if this changes our living situation to the point of discomfort I can go stay with Gaetan, he’ll let me crash even if he does still _all_ my shit all the time-” 

“Do you ever shut up,” Lambert sighs, indulgently painting Darkside’s nose and getting a happy whuffle for it. 

“Never. So?” 

“Ugh, you’re such a headache, _no_ I don’t want to fuck you.” He clears his throat. “Rightnow.” 

Aiden immediately pokes his head over Darkside’s back. “What!?” 

“I will throw this paint at you, see if I don’t.” 

“It’s just,” Aiden continues as they start working on painting his all leather tack with the green, which the leather is taking with absolute glee, “I wouldn’t mind. By which I mean I’d like to. A lot. If you would want to. You know.” 

Lambert looks at him, pained. “Did you just say “you know”?” 

“You’re uncomfortable with sex talk, shut up!” 

“I might be uncomfortable but I’m not a fucking child. “You know”, what the fuck is wrong with you. Maybe! At some point! Not right now though. I don’t know.” Lambert aggressively slathers more paint over his saddle blanket. “You’re the first person I’ve been interested in.” 

Aiden’s looking at him with his pupils so big they’ve turned into orbs, and Lambert glares at him. How has it come to this? How was it that this was the person his dumbass dick had decided to take an interest in? What bullshit did he do in his long 18 years of life to deserve someone so idiotic as Aiden Kett as his first proper romantic interest? What the fuck is wrong with him, honestly?

“Lambert,” Aiden says with the solemnity of a priest taking vows, “I will be _so good_ for your first time-” 

“Holy shit, die, right now, right here, _I’m not a fucking virgin you hellspawn_ -” 

Aiden leans in as they’re working on the armor, opening his mouth, and Lambert preempts this with an aggressive stripe of paint over the breastplate and snapping, “I’m not fucking telling you about my first time, Aiden.” 

Aiden shuts his mouth, and absolutely sulks about it. 

When they get back to bed at nearly 3 AM, Lambert faceplants into the pillows, only to shiver as Aiden smooths a hand over his back. 

“What,” he mumbles into the pillow. 

“Nothing,” Aiden says, and his voice is a little bit wistful. “Just… I’m glad I was late coming. I’m glad I met you. It’s all of the little things in life, you know? They wear on you. But the little things that are good, those are… those are really worth it. Like lace, and potatoes, and warm beds.” 

Lambert sighs, rolling over, and catches Aiden’s hand. Aiden’s eyes are bright in the dark, his smile quicksilver, and Lambert feels the last vestiges of his rage ease away. He’s still angry, but he’s always angry. Rage is something else entirely. 

“I suppose I don’t hate you,” he says, and Aiden’s smile is a brilliant flash as he leans in to press a kiss to Lambert’s forehead. 

“I’ll take it. Until you’re ready to take me.” 

It’s a good thing they have a spare pillow, because the one in Lambert’s hands bursts when he wallops Aiden with it. 

In the morning, Remus glares at him like he’s trying to set him on fire with his mind, and more than a few people notice, but they notice even more when Remus suddenly blanches and bolts from the room about half the way through his meal. 

Lambert smiles. Aiden leans into his shoulder, smiling even wider, neither of them caring that one of the boys serving at that table is four copper nobles richer and the storeroom short one vial of laxatives. 

“Hey,” Geralt says, sitting down at the table. “Anyone know why Remus’ horse is _green_ this morning?” 

It really is the little things in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dasha exists as a way of getting around figuring out how "Let's Just Kill The Wolves" Treyse would have wound up forming an alliance with them. He is also now my pride and joy and I love him. 
> 
> Dasha, in modern phrasing, would consider himself genderqueer.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments bring me great and abiding joy! Life is stressful, comments are free! Please feed your local starving author, they're doing their best. You can find me as Heronfem or kaer-cuan on tumblr, HeronVinn on twitter. Art and podfics welcome!


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